Unsettle the Ground Beneath You
by yumi michiyo
Summary: Wherein Rachel does rubber chicken impressions, Santana doesn't care what's going on as long as she gets sex, and Quinn is just along for the ride (which she doesn't remember getting on). Meanwhile, Kurt has popcorn and he's not afraid to use it. Pezberry with Faberry endgame. Oneshot.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:** Based on a prompt from **silverlightdragon** in which Rachel and Santana are friends with benefits, and Quinn finds out. That's pretty much all I took before I ran away with it. AU after Season 3, with convenient pieces of Season 4 used for my own benefit.

This fic has Santana/Rachel smut but Quinn/Rachel endgame, so people who aren't cool with anything other than Faberry might want to look away.

This is part 1, from Santana's POV. Part 2, from Rachel's POV, is coming soon. Extended author's notes and meta can be found on my Tumblr; hit me up at **yumi-michiyo**.

* * *

It starts with a kiss, as most of these arrangements often do.

The events leading up to the kiss were much less torrid; Rachel and Santana were having a quiet night in, fueled by Chinese takeout and cheap wine, and the conversation had turned to sexuality.

Santana, currently sprawled over their sofa, declares: "All I'm saying is, it's hard to decide which way you swing without trying everything in the playground first, if you know what I mean."

Rachel wrinkles her nose. "That is a disturbing, yet strangely accurate, metaphor."

Santana cackles. She reaches for her glass, making a displeased sound when she finds it empty, and stands up.

"Get me a refill too," calls Rachel. She quickly occupies Santana's old spot, holding her glass out.

"Fuck off," says Santana. Inebriated giggling follows her into the kitchen instead of the huffing she'd expected; she finds it more than a little endearing. Santana rolls her eyes. It's probably a side effect of co-existing with Rachel Berry for a prolonged period of time without anyone physically attacking each other.

On a whim, she brings the entire bottle back, and Rachel's eyes widen.

"Oh. Thank you."

Santana jerks the bottle out of her reach, just before Rachel's fingers make contact. "Nuh-uh. I didn't say this was for you too."

"Santanaaaa."

"Shut up. You're noisy."

Rachel whines again ("Whining? Wine? Get it? Excellent comedic timing is one of my strengths"), and tries to snag the wine out of Santana's hand; she misjudges the distance, being quite intoxicated, and ends up in Santana's lap. "Whoopsy-daisy." This was followed by a lot of giggling.

Santana rolls her eyes. It's becoming a common occurrence around Rachel, and she's glad she's had so much practice in high school. "Careful, Berry. One might think you're interested in something other than the wine."

"Who's to say I'm not?" purrs Rachel in response.

Santana stiffens. _Sexy_ and _Rachel Berry_ are two things that have _never_ gone together, but – Rachel is currently sprawled on her lap, leering up at her, and she's started this wriggling thing with her hips to get Santana's attention a little lower –

And then Rachel's own words seem to have finally penetrated her drunken haze. "Not that you're not attractive, of course," Rachel stammers, "but that wasn't quite the effect I was going for." With a little laugh, she holds up a hand and says: "C'mon, give me what I came here for, and we can forget this ever happened…"

Santana refocuses on the girl in her lap. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Say things like that, and take them back." She's certain her expression is an open book right now, but Santana isn't above getting right to the point.

Preferably, sometime tonight. Multiple times.

A predatory smirk spreads over Rachel's face. "I never said I was taking it back." She hauls herself upright – still straddling Santana's lap – and takes the glass and bottle from Santana's hand. Rachel pours herself a generous portion, draining the wine in a single gulp.

Santana swallows hard, eyes not leaving Rachel's throat.

Rachel puts both bottle and glass on their table. "Now, where were we?" she asks, grabbing onto Santana's shoulders for balance.

Santana's hands automatically go to Rachel's waist. "You were about to go down on me," she says, grinning.

Rachel snorts. "If you play your cards right." She dips her head to kiss the side of Santana's neck, her tongue flicking against the skin every so often, just to make Santana moan.

* * *

She knows it's early. The light is never this weak when she wakes up, and for a brief moment, Santana wonders why she's awake.

The woman in her arms mutters something and snuggles further into her. Santana snuggles back until two things hit her:

One: She's Santana fucking Lopez. She doesn't _cuddle._

Two: The woman she's _not cuddling_ is Rachel Berry.

"Fuck," groans Santana, throwing an arm over her eyes. The events of last night come to mind, like a pornographic slideshow.

"Not right now, please," says Rachel without opening her eyes, "but I wouldn't be opposed to it later."

" _Fuck_ – I mean, what the hell? You're awake?"

Rachel shifts – and her body rubs against Santana's, making her squirm a little. "I was woken up by the sound of your internal crisis." She props herself up on an elbow, pushing her hair out of her eyes. "I'm fairly certain that you've had your lesbian crisis years ago, so – is it the fact that we had sex that's causing you to freak out?"

Santana becomes aware that her jaw is hanging open and shuts it with a snap; she catches Rachel's fleeting smug smile, and flushes. "Too many words in the morning, Berry. And yes – I'm very aware that we had sex, multiple times."

"Then?"

She doesn't know exactly how to put it. On one hand, she's free of most of the hang-ups she had in high school; she'll be the first to admit that – nerdiness and bad dressing aside – Rachel is incredibly attractive and sexy. On the other hand…

Santana isn't in a serious relationship at the moment. And – there is no other hand in this scenario.

"You know, I'm trying to think of a downside and… nope, I got nothing." Santana scoots a little closer. "Except one."

"What?"

Santana's fingers find the curve of Rachel's hip and continues exploring; she enjoys the way Rachel tries not to respond to her touch. "I'm wondering what it would be like without the booze."

Rachel's eyes darken. "Santana Lopez, are you propositioning me?"

"I don't _proposition_. I'm offering you the chance to get up on the full Santana Lopez experience."

Rachel rolls her eyes. "And people say _I_ talk too much." She smacks away Santana's hand, pushing her so she lands flat on her back, and straddles her.

Whatever Santana wanted to say is lost when Rachel attacks her neck, mingling sloppy kisses with sharp nips to the skin that make thinking impossible. "Oh my god," grunts Santana. Her hands fly to Rachel's hair, gripping hard and guiding her to where Santana wants her mouth.

One of Rachel's hands cups Santana's right breast. She rolls the nipple expertly between her fingertips with just the right amount of pressure to make Santana's eyes roll back into her head, and okay – Santana's glad at least one of them was sober enough to remember important stuff from last night. "That's – god, like _that_. Don't stop." She can't control the way her body arches upwards when Rachel starts kissing her way down her collarbone, or when a hand slips to the small of her back to hold her steady.

Santana actually _whimpers_ when Rachel's mouth latches onto her left nipple, her tongue doing wonderfully filthy things to it; and all the while, she hasn't stopped playing with her right. A girl could actually die from all the stimulation she's currently getting. As it is, Santana is certain there's an embarrassingly damp patch on the sheets between her legs. She doesn't care at all.

"Rachel," she moans. Santana's legs attempt to wrap around Rachel's waist, directing her attention to where she needs it the most.

She releases Santana's nipple with a faint 'pop'. "Tell me what you want, baby."

… Okay, Rachel Berry calling her "baby" is something she never thought would be that _hot_. "You. I want your mouth on me."

Rachel actually _laughs_ at her, the little bitch. "What have I been doing to you for the past ten minutes, Santana?"

"Stop talking, or I might – oh fuck." Her mouth snaps shut, and her hips thrust forward when Rachel's hand cups her down there. A finger strokes through her folds, achingly slow. "Fuck, _yes_."

Rachel keeps up the tortuous movement as she makes her way down to Santana's legs. She pushes at Santana's knees, smirking when they collapse like a card house. "You know," she says conversationally, as though she's not about to go down on her friend, "I don't think I would have imagined us like this in high school, let alone two days ago."

Santana grits her teeth. "Berry, if you don't shut up and fuck me now, I swear to god I will cut you."

Rachel rolls her eyes. "If I had known that insulting me is such a turn-on for you, we would have had a much more pleasurable high school experience."

And Santana _is_ so turned on right now, she can't do anything but groan and attempt to rub herself against Rachel to get off. Hands on her thighs stop her, and then there's a tongue licking through her folds and teasing her clit. Santana's head slams back into her pillows. It's physically impossible for her to spread her legs any wider, but she tries anyway. " _Yes_. Right there, oh my god."

Alcohol or no alcohol, how could she have forgotten this? Rachel's mouth is wickedly talented, and her tongue is – she should teach a class so every woman could eat her the way she's being eaten right now. Santana's breathing becomes little gasping pants as she inches closer to her orgasm, her hands in Rachel's hair again as she tries to keep herself grounded. "My god, I'm so close, Rachel – "

Fingers slide into her; Santana makes a strangled sound. Rachel adds another finger and the stretch is just right.

"Yes yes yes _yes – "_

With a buck of her hips, Santana comes hard. Rachel's fingers don't stop pumping until she's come down from her high, panting and shaky. "My god, Rachel." Santana's so spent, she doesn't realise Rachel has disentangled her fingers from her hair and tucked herself up in Santana's arms. Rachel looks faintly nervous, like she'll bolt at the slightest provocation.

Santana has enough presence of mind to recognise that this is a moment that she can't ruin. She reaches up to smooth Rachel's heavily-mussed hair down, smirking at her handiwork. "That was so much better sober," she says.

She's said the right thing. Rachel's expression relaxes into a shy smile, and a coy glance that has Santana's insides melting.

"You were right," adds Santana.

"About what?"

"About how high school could have been a much more _pleasurable_ experience." She grins wolfishly. "Except this is way better than high school because there're no classes or teachers to stop me from making you come multiple times on my fingers, screaming my name with that beautiful voice of yours."

Rachel's eyes become hooded, her breathing increasingly loud with each word. "God, Santana."

She takes a moment to survey Rachel; partly because Santana's contemplating the merits of simply _taking_ Rachel, mostly because there's no way Santana's going to admit that she's still feeling a little wobbly-kneed from the orgasm Rachel just gave her.

Santana decides to take things slow.

So she licks her lips – slowly, running her tongue over the top, then bottom lip – and watches as Rachel's eyes follow each deliberate movement. "I would've taken you on every surface," she says, "whispered filthy things in your ear between classes. Touched you in class when no one's looking, and you'd have to keep quiet if you didn't want anyone finding out how _dirty_ you are."

Rachel moans, shifting her legs; Santana grabs her hip and yanks their bodies flush together. "I swear, you wore those ridiculously short skirts just to tempt someone into giving you a proper fucking." She kisses Rachel filthily, all tongue, smirking when she feels Rachel respond eagerly.

"Put your hands above your head." Rachel's arms shoot up as she complies. Santana tucks her wrists together so she can hold them down with her left hand. "You're soaking wet," she purrs, "how long have you been wanting me to touch you?"

"Too long." Rachel's pupils are dilated, and Santana knows she won't take long. But she wants Rachel built up on her own terms. Santana dips her head, licks a stripe over Rachel's collarbone, her tongue tracing the dip in the center. "Santana, please."

The taste of Rachel's skin jogs her memory, and she recalls Rachel really liking it when she sucks on her earlobe. Santana switches her focus to the shell of Rachel's ear, her teeth catching hold and tugging gently. Her free hand traces light patterns on Rachel's belly.

"Oh god," pants Rachel.

"You have no idea how good you look right now." Her teeth scrape over Rachel's jaw. "All flushed and desperate." Santana nips her neck, then licks the spot. There won't be a mark – Rachel would murder her – but it's hard enough to make Rachel hiss a muffled " _Yes_ ".

"I need you – touch me, please."

"You don't get to order me around," says Santana, and has to hide a smirk when she sees Rachel suck in a breath. "I'm in control, and I'm going to touch you where I like, when I like. And if I feel like it, I might just humour you."

Fuck, she's practically coming again just from watching Rachel react to her. The woman below her is sucking deep greedy breaths, her body straining to relieve her arousal, eyes unfocused.

Santana decides she's ready. Without warning, her hand goes to one of Rachel's breasts, her mouth on the other.

"Santana, god!"

She might not have Rachel's breath control or technique, but damn if years of being the school slut didn't teach her how to use her mouth. She swirls her tongue around the areola, lapping at the hardened nipple itself. She moves her head to repeat the treatment for the other breast.

"I'm going to let go of your hands. Keep your arms up," instructs Santana, and lets go of Rachel's wrists. She complies, fingers curling around the metal bars of the headboard, much to Santana's surprise.

Santana gets up, drawing a disappointed sound from Rachel; truth be told, she's missing the warmth of being pressed completely against Rachel's body. She kneels on the floor, tugging on Rachel's ankles until her legs are dangling off the bed.

Rachel yelps in surprise. "Santana, what are you –" she starts, and then it trails off into a moan when Santana presses an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her ankle.

Santana loves how responsive Rachel is. How she lets her know what she likes (very loudly), and it's giving her a massive ego boost. Currently, she's taking her own sweet time kissing up Rachel's legs, savouring each moan and whimper. "You have the most gorgeous legs for someone your size. It's practically criminal."

"Yours aren't bad too," Rachel manages to say, and then squeaks when Santana nips her inner thigh.

"I'm trying to compliment you, for once in our lives." She's driven almost to insanity by her goal, so close to her face. Santana's lips close around Rachel's clit, and Rachel's legs spread even wider.

"Santana, god." Hands fist in her hair.

"Arms up, baby," says Santana, laughing softly when Rachel groans.

"You're trying to kill me."

She laps at Rachel like she hasn't eaten for a day. Santana puts her hands on Rachel to keep herself steady, because the entire experience – the taste, the smell, the erotic sight before her, and the sounds – is going to her head.

Rachel's already so worked up and it doesn't take long before her body stiffens, and she makes a series of gasping noises that are quickly becoming Santana's new favourite thing. She hauls herself back up on the bed so she can watch Rachel ride through her orgasm, fingers rubbing Rachel's clit to prolong it as long as she can.

Rachel's eyes snap open and blink once, twice. "Wow."

"Wow? Is that it?"

"You'll excuse me, Santana, if I think that a single 'Wow' from a normally loquacious person like myself is a massive testament to your sexual prowess," says Rachel testily, and Santana laughs.

"Okay, _that_ was more like it." She flops down on her back, arms pillowing her head, feeling incredibly smug. She just needs a few minutes – okay, more than a few minutes – to recover.

Santana gets approximately forty-five seconds of uninterrupted rest when she feels Rachel snuggle into her side. Her eyes fly open. "Berry, there's more than enough space in this bed for me, _and_ your midgety self."

"I'm fully aware of that, Santana," scoffs Rachel. Santana's eyes slide over to see her looking straight back, eyes intense. "I was simply hoping that you and I could be more comfortable with each other, given the incredibly intimate experience that we've just shared. Twice."

"Yeah, big words will get you nowhere. I've known you too long for that. Just say whatever you want to say, Rachel."

Her face lights up, and Rachel scoots even closer; Santana sucks in a breath when she feels Rachel's entire side pressed into hers. "I want to talk about us. What this means for our friendship."

"I didn't hate you before. I still don't hate you now. Good enough?"

Rachel rolls her eyes. "That's a load off my mind," she drawls, and Santana grins. "No, seriously. We just had sex, drunk _and_ sober, and I would like to establish if we are on the same page with regards to that."

"Rachel." If she wants to be serious, Santana can do serious. She rolls over on her side so she's facing Rachel. "We're friends – even though saying that makes me want to gouge my eyes out. I think you're smoking hot and I'd sleep with you again, but this doesn't do anything for me. No offence, but I'm not into singing hobbits."

Rachel heaves a heavy, long-suffering sigh, and says: "As… _tactfully_ as that was put, Santana, I'm glad you feel the same way. I agree that you are very attractive, physically – "

" – just physically?"

" – and in many other ways." Rachel pushes her fringe out of her eyes. "Please let me finish talking before you add any ribald commentary."

"Fine. Continue."

"Thank you. As I was saying, while I find you sexually appealing, I'm also not looking to pursue a romantic relationship with you. While I enjoy your company, like you as a person, and greatly treasure our friendship, I get the feeling that one of us would end up dead within a week of embarking on a relationship." Rachel puts a hand on her arm. "No offence."

"None taken. I agree." Not completely; if anyone was going to end up dead, it would be Rachel.

Rachel smiles. "Well, that was a fruitful conversation." She stretches, seemingly unaware of her nakedness, and Santana can't stop staring. "Which brings us to the important part."

"The sex."

"Yes."

Santana shrugs. "For once, I think you shouldn't overthink this. We're young, we're in New York, we're both currently not in a serious relationship – at the same time – and we're both sexy as fuck." Rachel smirks at that. "So really, there's nothing stopping us from doing this again."

Much to her surprise, Rachel grins and nods. "I completely agree. So we'll be – what is the common parlance for it? – fuck buddies? This is so exciting; it's one of the experiences of bohemian artist living that I can cross off my list, for when I will inevitably play one of these characters onstage."

Santana chuckles, and for once, doesn't want to throttle Rachel to death. "Yeah, no. Learn to quit while you're ahead, Rach."

"But I'm not." Rachel rests her chin on Santana's arm. "We're about even."

"Huh?"

"Number of orgasms."

"Oh."

"You know me. Always thinking about getting ahead," says Rachel, her voice dipping into a throaty register that gets Santana's pulse racing – although, that might have more to do with the hand that Rachel is running down the outside of Santana's leg.

* * *

So, they have sex. More than once, and on multiple occasions.

It's convenient, easy, and fun; now that Santana has another – significantly more effective – method of shutting Rachel up. It's also a huge boost to her mood when she's had a tough day at work, or on the audition circuit. Rachel's really growing on her, too. She tried to make a list of the emotional, mental, and health benefits of regular orgasms after a particularly strenuous afternoon, and all Santana did was laugh and attempt to give her an orgasm (because it was apparently what Rachel was aiming at – an orgasm, not an attempt at one).

Regular orgasms aside, their arrangement has done wonders for their friendship. Rachel lacks any sense of personal space (as does Santana; they've seen each other naked too many times to give a damn). Good, regular sex has mellowed the both of them out considerably, enough that's Kurt's noticed.

And being Kurt, he lets them know what's on his mind in dramatic fashion.

"Are you two having sex?" he asks abruptly over Chinese takeout one evening.

Santana splutters, glad she hadn't yet taken a bite of her lo mein. Rachel calmly finishes her mouthful, says: "We are, thank you for asking," and takes another bite.

Kurt looks ill. "What – since _when_. _Why_."

"Since April." Rachel glances over at Santana – who's still having trouble swallowing – and smiles shyly. "And why not."

"Oh my god." His half-eaten plate of noodles is pushed away.

"Honestly, Kurt, I don't understand why you're reacting this way when you were the one to bring it up in the first place." As she talks, her gaze keeps drifting to her left; rolling her eyes, Santana takes the bag of vegetable dumplings and puts one on Rachel's plate, getting a warm smile as thanks.

Kurt stares at Rachel. "I know I asked, but I wasn't expecting that answer. Oh. My _god._ "

"Shut up, Kurt." Santana's had enough of all the diva-tude she's seeing at the table. She just wants to finish her food because the noodles are surprisingly good today, and then she's got the opening shift tomorrow so she aims to spend her evening doing nothing. "Don't you have anything else to say?"

"Hail Mother Mary, full of grace?" mutters Kurt. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"This conversation isn't making any sense," grumbles Rachel.

Santana growls. "That's not what I – what the _fuck_ crawled up your loose ass and died! Seriously, do you have a problem with Rach and me?"

Kurt blanches – a striking contrast to the reddening of Rachel's face – and he levels a slow, terrifying look at Santana.

Clearly, there's an invisible line that she's crossed.

"Yes, I've got a problem with you and Rachel," he says. "What are you? In a committed relationship? Dating? Casual? Fuck buddies? Have either of you taken the time from each other's bodies to establish that?"

Even Santana winces at the venom directed at her. "We're friends with benefits."

Kurt takes a deep breath. "Naturally, if you two part on bad terms, I'll be having a hard time trying to coexist with you both. But more importantly, you're both my friends – yes, even you, Santana. I was just concerned about people getting hurt by this arrangement since _you_ – " he points his fork at Rachel " – have yet to date anyone you didn't want to marry three weeks in, and _you_ – " the fork points to Santana " – as far as I know, are emotionally stunted. So you'll excuse me if I'm not falling over myself being happy for you two."

He's got a point, depressing as it is. She can see the same thoughts running through Rachel's mind as she worries her lower lip. "Sorry," mutters Santana grudgingly.

Kurt just stares at her.

"Yeah, okay – you're right. Alright? I'm sorry I jumped down your throat like that – " ("That's a disgusting thought," he says.) "You have a point. We don't really have the best, or most comparable track records when it comes to relationships, but…" Santana trails off.

Rachel senses her distress. "But we've already established what this is, and the other boundaries of this arrangement," cuts in Rachel smoothly. "We're gonna be okay. I assure you that we will be as private as possible, and you won't be affected by whatever drama may arise." She hesitates before placing her hand on his. "Thank you, Kurt."

His smile is a little pinched, but it's there; she takes it as a victory.

* * *

"Hummel? Got a minute?"

Kurt looks up from his phone. "As I live and breathe; Santana Lopez not only being civil, but also asking for a minute of my time." His voice is devoid of inflection.

Santana sighs. "Look – you have a point. I understand where you were coming from, and I shouldn't have said those things. I'm here to make sure we're okay."

He nods. "We are. Honest. I'm worried for Rachel because she's my best friend, and she was my friend first, but – you know what she's like."

"She was the first one to tell me she's only in it for the sex," says Santana dryly.

Kurt's eyebrow goes way, way up. "Ah," he says. "I guess she's changed quite a bit since high school. And you? It's really all about the sex for you, too?"

She appreciates that he asks her about Brittany without actually saying it. "Yeah," nods Santana. "Right now, I'm just glad to be out of that shithole town, and I wanna concentrate on figuring out what I'm doing with my life. I don't really do relationships, as you know, and I'm not… Rachel's great, but she's not my type. Crazy hot, but also mostly crazy. "

He snorts. "I know, right? I adore her, but I won't lie and say that New York hasn't been good for her." Kurt sends a little crooked smile her way. "You've been good for her."

"Who'd have guessed all Rachel needed to unwind was good, regular, lesbian monkey sex?"

Kurt scowls. "Aaaand we're done here."

"You love me."

"In your dreams."

She waggles her eyebrows at him. "I don't play for your team, so no."

"Dear god. You certainly know how to ruin a moment."

* * *

Santana comes barrelling in, her bag sailing across the loft to land on the couch. "Okay," she says, "I told Gunther that my hale and hearty great-aunt – who walks to the store daily – had a coronary and is hospitalized. So what is so fucking important that I had to skip out on my shift?"

Rachel turns wide and panicked eyes on her. "Quinn's coming."

"The fuck?"

"Yes, exactly! Yale's winter break starts a week early, and she's coming to stay with us."

Santana swears. "No, I meant – why the _fuck_ is Quinn fucking Fabray's visit so important that you had me blow off work to tell me? Couldn't it wait?"

"Wait, you skipped work because I called?"

"It sounded important," mutters Santana gruffly. Already she regrets making that impulsive decision; especially when Rachel's looking at her with those wide, soft eyes.

"Oh," says Rachel quietly. "You didn't have to."

"Yeah, whatever. I did, it's over, and I'll just have to keep it in mind in case you call with a _real_ emergency next time, midget."

There's no edge to her voice, she knows. Rachel knows it too, and she just smiles at her. "Come here, Santana." When Santana sits down, Rachel puts her arms around Santana's waist.

"So… Q's coming," prompts Santana. "I didn't know you two talked."

Rachel makes a noise. "We do."

"When did she say she'd be here?"

"This Friday after her class." Her voice is a little muffled because she's pressed her face into the crook of Santana's neck.

"And again I ask: what's the emergency?"

"I don't even know. I – we're friends, she said so. Even if she _is_ the most frustrating person I've ever met." The last sentence is said in a dark undertone Santana only catches because Rachel is so close.

"I blame that stick wedged up her ass. Took me a good long while to dislodge it."

Rachel pulls away, wrinkling her nose. "That's disgusting."

"Not literally, Rach."

"Yes, but even then, it's not a pleasant mental image."

"Suit yourself," says Santana, grinning. "I only wish we had tried anal; I'll bet Q's seriously kinky underneath all her Christian celibacy bullshit."

Rachel sat bolt-upright. "Excuse me, but what was that?"

"What was what?"

"We had tried anal… Santana, are you saying that you had s– … you slept with Quinn?"

"Yeah – twice actually." Santana shrugs.

Rachel's reaction reminds her of one of those novelty rubber chickens that's been squeezed: her eyes are practically bulging out of her head, and she's making a high-pitched squeaking noise. Santana watches, fascinated, as Rachel eventually calms down enough to ask, "And when was this?" in a tight voice.

"At Mr. Schue's wedding-that-wasn't," she says. "We were all hooking up with people we shouldn't have then." Santana stares at Rachel.

"I told you about Finn and me in the strictest confidence," she mutters, sounding wounded.

"And do you see anyone else in this room?" replies Santana, waving her hand for emphasis.

"Okay, fine; that was besides the point, I'll concur." Rachel continues to stare at Santana as though she murdered her cat in front of her. "You never told me that you and Quinn slept together."

"Since when was I required to report the details of my sex life to you, Berry?"

Rachel makes a squeaking sound – the rubber chicken comparison has never been more apt – and throws her hands up in the air. "That's not – I thought we were friends, Santana. That we could tell each other these things."

Santana raises an eyebrow. "So… you're saying that you want me to tell you that I slept with Q because we're friends?"

"No! No, I didn't mean that!" Rachel pinches the bridge of her nose, and then says: "It would have been nice to have heard it from you directly, rather than… making assumptions." When Santana continues to stare at her quizzically, Rachel clarifies: "I saw you two dancing together while Finn and I were performing."

"Oh."

"Of course, it was simply an educated guess considering how you two were behaving."

"We were drunk out of our minds."

"Yes, that was the general impression I got."

Santana lifts a shoulder, and lets it fall. "Hey, Rachel?"

"Yes?"

"Preggo and I got really, really drunk at Schue's wedding bust party and slept together."

Rachel cracks a half-smile. "I appreciate the information, but not your continued baffling refusal to use Quinn's name."

"It's our thing," replies Santana. She honestly doesn't understand what's going on, but she's eager to end the conversation. "Okay. Great. So we're good?"

"I suppose so." Rachel clears her throat, shifts in her seat. "So… you and Quinn slept together."

"Uh-huh."

"Is there any… lingering awkwardness between the two of you?"

Santana shrugs. "No? Guess not. It was a one-time thing, and we were drunk. We both know Q loses her panties real quick when alcohol's involved."

"Santana!"

"It's true!"

Rachel rolls her eyes, muttering under her breath about uncouth roommates. "You distracted me. We were talking about Quinn's visit."

"We're cool. I'm definitely not gonna jump her, though I wouldn't blame her if she wanted another go…"

"You're as bad as Noah sometimes."

"... and as far as I know, you and Kurt aren't sexing Q up anytime."

"Oh, my god." Rachel gets up and walks into her room, signalling the end of the conversation – which was, in Santana's humble opinion, a huge fucking waste of her time and a good excuse. Seriously, her great-aunt's like a hundred, and could pop her clogs anytime.

Not to mention she doesn't understand why Rachel's in a snit. But the thought quickly leaves her mind when she remembers she has an entire afternoon to herself now, and she's got a lot on her Netflix queue to catch up with...

... and only if Rachel's not in the mood.

She turns on the TV. She'll watch a movie or two while waiting for Rachel to revert to normal Rachel Berry levels of crazy before trying her luck there.

* * *

Rachel's stuck in back-to-back classes, and so it falls to Santana to shuffle her shifts around so she can pick Quinn up from Grand Central. Of course, she doesn't know she has to do that until this morning, when a harassed Rachel shouts the information at her as she disappears out the door.

"You," says Santana two hours later, once Rachel picks up the phone, "owe me so many orgasms it's not even funny."

"Santana!" Rachel hisses.

"What? It's New York; no one cares." That's not strictly true; the man seated across from her flashes her a grin and a thumbs-up, which she returns.

"Be as that may, I'm not in the habit of broadcasting my personal life in public and neither should you." There's a rustling on her end. "Are you at the station already? Quinn says she should be reaching soon."

"Yeah, yeah." Santana takes a long drink from the mug in front of her. "I've been here for a while now."

"Yes, that much is quite clear," says Quinn, materializing from the crowd.

Santana gets up and gives her friend a clumsy hug; her phone is still clasped to her ear. "Hi, Q. No, I'm not talking to you, Rachel; Barbie just got here."

"Oh! Pass the phone to her, please!"

"I'm not your maid," grumbles Santana, but obliges. She sits back down to finish her mocha as she waits for Quinn to finish talking.

"So. How's Yale?" asks Santana once Quinn's handed the phone back.

Quinn beams. "Amazing. I never imagined it could be like this."

"Cool." She's genuinely happy for her friend; while it's not like she herself hasn't had her fair share of shit, Santana has to admit that Quinn had it pretty bad as well. "Let's go, then."

They spend the trip back to the loft in silence. Santana doesn't do small talk, and besides they don't have that kind of friendship; anyway, she has an earbud in, while Quinn pulls out an incredibly boring-looking book once they get on the subway.

"Still the nerd, I see."

Quinn smiles beatifically. "Contrary to what you believe, Santana, it isn't actually possible to catch a disease from books. Or you might have gotten that mixed up with chlamydia…?"

Santana cackles. "Bitch," she says, almost affectionately.

* * *

Santana shuffles out of her room on Saturday afternoon, still groggy. She's halfway through her coffee before she registers Quinn saying something to her. "What?"

Quinn frowns and gestures at her. "What on earth are you wearing, S?"

Santana blearily stares down at herself; she's wearing the first T-shirt and shorts she found off the chair in her room, where clothes that are too clean for the laundry and too dirty for the closet go. "... A T-shirt?"

"That says 'Wicked'?"

When she cracks her eyes open a little wider, Santana becomes cognizant of Quinn's bemusement, Kurt's smirk, and Rachel's rubber chicken impression (toned down for Quinn's benefit). "Oh," she says, plucking at the shirt. "Must have gotten the laundry mixed up."

"Yes!" chimes in Rachel, nodding furiously. Santana tries not to roll her eyes; there isn't enough caffeine in the world that can prepare Santana for dealing with the Rachel Berry Experience this early in the day. "On account of doing our laundry together, since we live together. As the only two women in this loft."

Even partially awake, Santana can tell that Rachel is going to extreme, Rachel Berry-esque lengths not to let Quinn know about their arrangement. Kurt catches her eye and his smirk widens.

"Okay," says Quinn, nodding slowly. Her gaze drifts from each of the other occupants of the loft in turn. Santana's fairly certain she has her best "I'm meeting with Coach Sylvester" face on; she can only hope Kurt's not being as big an asshole as he usually is (it's funny because he's gay, and – she ends that train of thought). "Right. Rachel, do you mind if I go freshen up…?"

"Oh! No, of course not; the bathroom's this way," says Rachel, steering Quinn in the right direction. She shoots Santana a look that means they'll have words later.

* * *

Rachel corners her once Quinn disappears into the bathroom, confident that the clanking of their ancient water heater is enough to drown out their conversation. Kurt, sensing blood in the water, disappears into his room.

"Okay, why don't you want Quinn to know we're sleeping together?"

"Shhhhh," hisses Rachel, doing an uncanny impression of Brittany's cat when Santana inadvertently took his lounging spot. "Not so loud."

"My question stands."

"Don't you find it weird? That you and Quinn – and now you and me?" The weight of keeping such a huge thing secret seems to have taken a toll on Rachel's verbosity; Santana does her best not to laugh, faced with the sight of Rachel Berry waving her hands around as she struggles to find words to express herself. "I personally find it quite embarrassing to be flaunting our arrangement in our friends' faces."

"Nobody's flaunting anything, Berry, unless that's your kink," says Santana, ignoring the scandalised squeak she gets. "We're roommates who give each other orgasms. What's so embarrassing about that?"

"Well – nothing. But I'm not the type of person to be sharing my private life publicly."

"I'd never have believed that, given how loud you can be when I do that thing with my mouth on your – ow! Fuck!"

Rachel growls. "Must you always be so vulgar?"

Santana has a smart-ass comment about Rachel liking to hurt her on the tip of her tongue, but holds back when she senses Rachel is actually upset. "Holy shit, you're serious about this."

"And when have I not been? You, of all people, should know that I have no chill whatsoever." The anger's gone out of her, and she settles back against the wall with a sigh. "It's weird, okay? Don't ask me to explain it."

"You're going to, anyway," says Santana with a small smile. It's her peace offering; she can be nice, okay, and it's not like she loathes Rachel now. Eventually Rachel smiles back, bumping her shoulder against Santana's.

"Quinn and I… we haven't the most conventional of friendships, you know that. It was a pleasant surprise that she even wanted to stay friends with me after high school, to the point that she'd buy us train passes."

"I know, right." She'd given Quinn plenty of grief after Rachel told her about the passes.

"I'm not worried about her knowing that I'm not entirely straight. It also has nothing to do with the fact you've now slept with the both of us."

"Mmmhmmm. Right," says Santana. Rachel ignores her.

"I don't want to make her stay with us weird or uncomfortable," finishes Rachel.

"Okay." Santana is still convinced that Rachel is full of bullshit, and there's something else she's not telling her, but she knows better than to force it out. Whatever. She smacks Rachel's ass playfully on her way to the kitchen, cackling at the girl's scandalised yelp.

* * *

At Rachel's insistence, they all go out for a day of playing tourist (it's less insistence and more promising of sexual favours that convinces Santana; she'd gladly have complied nonetheless but she doesn't see why she can't benefit from the situation). Mostly, it consists of her and Kurt hanging behind while Rachel talks Quinn's ear off.

"Rachel's really excited," comments Kurt offhand. Santana snorts.

"That's the biggest understatement I ever heard."

As though determined to prove Santana right, Rachel chooses this moment to squeal with delight, tugging on Quinn's sleeve as she points at some adorable trinket on the shelves.

"She hasn't said more than a "Please pass Quinn the salt, Santana" to me since Preggo got here," remarks Santana. "I almost miss her lectures on animal cruelty… except I don't. Q-ball gets all the shit now, it's way funnier when she's on the receiving end."

Kurt stifles a laugh. "You're terrible."

"But funny."

"But funny," he agrees, rolling his eyes. "I wonder how Quinn's holding up. Do you think we should rescue her soon?"

"Nah," says Santana. She watches as Quinn takes her purse out, clearly offering to purchase that hideous trinket despite Rachel's vehement protests. "This is way more entertaining."

* * *

The rest of Quinn's visit goes uneventfully and Santana practically jumps Rachel the moment they're alone in the loft together.

"You're ridiculous." Rachel pushes Santana off, but she's already shimmying out of her shorts.

"I was promised sex."

"I was desperate. That's the only thing that ensures your cooperation these days."

Santana's thumbs hook on the waistband of Rachel's panties. "Hey, I'm bribable and cheap. And it's not like you're not getting anything out of this either."

Rachel opens her mouth to say something, but only a moan comes out instead when Santana swipes her fingers through wet heat.

* * *

Kurt comes to her room unannounced, a bottle of wine in his hand. "Can we talk?"

"Sure." She leads the way to the couch – neutral territory, since she's sure the bed still reeks of sex. He seems to appreciate the gesture as he nods while pouring her a glass. "What's up?"

"I was wrong about you and Rachel."

Santana leans forward, propping her chin on her knee. "I know, but I like hearing you say it."

He rolls his eyes at her. "I was prepared to pick Rachel off the floor after you'd said something to her, or broke your arrangement off after she'd confessed deeper feelings, but… she's happy. Happier than I've seen her in a while. And you honestly do care about her."

"I'm not that morally bankrupt, y'know."

"Maybe a little overdrawn," says Kurt teasingly; she aims a half-hearted kick at him. "Seriously, though; you're good for each other. This thing shouldn't work as well as it does, considering it's you two, but… yes. I guess miracles do happen."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she drawls, holding out her glass for him to refill. "Let's drink to more action for me, and the faint hope you'll see some action soon."

"I'll drink to that," says Kurt, straight-faced, and clinks their glasses together.

* * *

Santana's having a shit day. She bombed an audition for an ensemble role in the afternoon, and she'd been told she 'wasn't the right fit' when she tried for a TV commercial (she'd resisted the urge to shoot back at the man that he really meant that she wasn't white enough, but only barely). She slams the loft door closed.

Rachel's head snaps up. She has a rebuke on the tip of her tongue, but Santana just looks at her, and Rachel deflates. "Oh, Santana."

Santana shrugs, and tries not to look as pathetic as she feels.

Rachel shuts her laptop, pushing it onto the couch. She tugs on Santana's sleeve, leading her into the bedroom. "Lie down," says Rachel, peeling off her shirt even as she straddles Santana's hips, kissing her hard.

"... you're sure?"

"You need this," says Rachel. "Let me take care of you."

She's about to protest that she's sweaty and kinda foul from the subway, but Rachel's mouth on hers takes care of that. "Oh fuck yes," groans Santana instead, when Rachel sucks on her earlobe. Her top is long gone by the time Rachel drags her fingernails down her ribcage; her hips jerk forward in anticipation. "Touch me."

"I will." Rachel likes dominating her almost as much as Santana enjoys being dominated, though Santana would rather chew her own hand off than admit it out loud. "But you need to tell me what you want, where you want it." She trails the back of her hand up and down Santana's thigh. "And then I'll decide if you deserve it."

"Fuck. That's hot."

Rachel gives her a sultry smile. "So? Where do you want me, baby?"

"I want your mouth on me."

"Where? Here?" She licks the underside of Santana's jaw; Santana draws a sharp intake of breath.

"Rach, I'm so not in the mood for – " She chokes on the rest of her words when Rachel cups her roughly through her panties.

"You're sure about that? Because – "

The doorbell sounds, and Rachel almost falls off the bed in surprise.

"The fuck?" Santana sits bolt-upright. "Shit." She stares as Rachel scrambles off, looking for her clothes. "You've got more on than I do, you answer it."

Rachel shoots a glare at her but can't dispute the truth of her statement; she yanks her sweatshirt back on as she walks out of the room. Santana grins when she spots Rachel wiping her hands on the back of her shorts, muttering something under her breath about ill-timed interruptions.

She lies back down, not bothering to cover herself. Her bad mood's on standby, and can only be dissipated once Rachel gets rid of whoever's at the door and comes back to finish what she started –

" _Quinn_?" she hears from outside, and the bad mood settles down with a _Gilmore Girls_ marathon.

"... _fuck_." Santana leaps off her bed. By the time she's decent enough to appear outside, she stumbles on an interesting tableau: Quinn, a traveling bag on her shoulder, staring; Rachel, crimson with embarrassment, also staring – albeit at anywhere else but at Quinn.

She's chosen the worst possible time to appear; Quinn takes one look at her and her hastily-assembled outfit, and says: "You... and _Santana_?"

Stung, Santana decides to go on the offensive. "Me and Berry," she says. "And what are _you_ doing here?"

"I was supposed to come today, remember?"

Rachel, who was chewing on her lower lip, suddenly blinks, looking panic-stricken. "Oh shit – it's Thursday today?"

Santana's eyes widen. She'd – and Rachel too, from the looks of it – completely forgotten there was this exhibition at the Guggenheim that Quinn had wanted to visit, and she'd asked if she could stay with them so she could attend one of the related talks.

Quinn averts her eyes from them. "I could always stay somewhere else, if I'm interrupting you guys…"

"You're not, uh, interrupting anything," says Rachel quickly.

"Oh. Okay, sure. That's – it's fine, I think you're pretty good together."

"Quinn, it's nothing like that."

"I'll just go," says Quinn, backing up. Rachel follows her. "I'll see you around?"

"Quinn!" Rachel darts out the door in hot pursuit. The loft door slams shut behind her, leaving Santana alone.

In other circumstances she would have laughed herself stupid, but – something seems off about the entire situation. Santana knows better than to meddle with the thick soup of drama that seems ever-present around Quinn and Rachel.

She's interrupted when a forlorn Rachel comes back in. "She's gone," announces Rachel.

"I kinda gathered." Santana goes over to put an arm around her shoulders. "You okay?"

"She thinks we're dating," says Rachel, turning horrified eyes on her roommate.

Even if she knows what Rachel means, she doesn't like the unintended jab at her. "I don't appreciate that tone of voice."

"Sorry. I – I'm a little shellshocked right now." Rachel gently shrugs off Santana's arm, going to collapse on the sofa. "Quinn thinks you and I are in a relationship."

"And that's bothering you… how?"

"I'm not quite sure myself," she mumbles, dragging her hand down her face.

Santana's still incredibly aroused, and that bad mood is still there. But she pushes everything away when she sees the forlorn look on Rachel's face. "Okay, Rachel," she says. "Let me know when you figure it out."

She meant it to be sarcastic, and rolls her eyes in disbelief when Rachel just nods.

* * *

She sends Quinn a text later that evening, and gets back a: _I'm fine, thnks for asking. Not. Srsly, r u even capable of being nice for once in ur life?_

 _Pl both noe i dont work that way_ , types Santana, smirking. She knows Quinn knows that texting at all is her way of showing affection. Over the years, Santana's perfected the art of layering human emotion into the things she does; the more abrasive the act, the more she cares.

 _Right. Whatevs. So u and Rachel?_

 _We're just sleeping tgt thats all no feelins or shit involved_

 _K_

Santana frowns. The single-letter acknowledgement means that Quinn Fabray is shutting down. She calls Quinn immediately.

"Tubbers, I know you did not just 'k' me –" she says when the call connects, and then she cuts herself off with a "fuck!" when Quinn hangs up on her.

"Bitch."

* * *

She's woken up early (by her standards, at least) by the clanking of their heater. Santana swears, dragging her pillow onto her head. Whatever thought of sleep dissipates gradually when the clanking stops, replaced by the aroma of coffee, and she gives in to temptation.

Kurt and Rachel are in the kitchen. She ignores them both, making a beeline for the coffeemaker – and grunts in displeasure when she sees it's empty. Santana swipes Kurt's coffee for herself, watching as Rachel bustles around the small space.

Kurt bristles, but a glare from her quietens him; being the more lucid of the two, he decides to make more coffee.

"Why," starts Santana after half the coffee's gone, "are you making a racket on a Friday morning?"

("Afternoon," mumbles Kurt, rolling his eyes.)

"I'm going to look for Quinn." Rachel is preoccupied with stuffing two Thermos flasks into a bag. "I need to apologise for the awkward situation we subjected her to last night, and convince her to come and stay with us as we originally planned. I believe making her lunch would be a step in the right direction." She holds up two sandwich bags. "Which do you think Quinn would prefer? Tuna salad, or chicken salad?"

"Bacon," says Santana. To her surprise, Rachel bites her lip and nods.

"Yes, I do believe you're right. I confess that I was hoping not to have to prepare something that greasy and which goes against my beliefs, but this _is_ a gesture of apology, and I should be willing to meet her halfway at the very least." Rachel shoves both bags into the fridge. "Thank you for your input, Santana; now, I think we might still have some leftover bacon in the freezer, let me check…"

Kurt stares, horrified. Santana is similarly rooted to the spot until she manages a: "Rachel, what are you doing?"

Rachel pauses, an open pack of frozen bacon in her hand. "I'm making a packed lunch for Quinn."

"You're vegan," says Kurt, gesturing at the meat she's holding. "You gave me a fifteen-minute lecture about animal cruelty and the general unhygienic conditions in the meat processing industry when I bought that last week."

Rachel looks sheepish. "I switched to vegetarianism because I can't afford to sustain a vegan lifestyle. Also, I may be vegetarian, but all of you are perfectly content to consume animal flesh," replies Rachel. She puts the package in the sink and runs the tap. "I can try and change your minds but I certainly can't stop you."

"What Hummel meant to say was – Q's not even here, and you're perfectly happy to cook dead animal flesh for her," interjects Santana.

Rachel shrugs. "I don't mind." She turns her attention back to the food.

"This isn't normal," says Kurt in an undertone. "Did anything else happen last night – not that I regret not being there last night, because too much female drama – that you neglected to share?"

"Apart from Rachel getting kidnapped on her way back from chasing down the runaway bride and being replaced by a terrible clone?"

"I'm right here, Santana," says Rachel pointedly. She has oven mitts on her hands as she gingerly works a pair of tongs to flip the bacon slices; it's weird as fuck but strangely endearing. Rachel Berry's brand of crazy is something that Santana, shockingly, now finds charming.

Kurt, similarly accustomed to Rachel, looks unconcerned with her antics. "I vote we let the terrible clone continue. I'm curious to see how the aliens thought we wouldn't notice Rachel's been replaced."

Santana grins wickedly. "Agreed."

"You're terrible, the both of you," comments Rachel. She's swapped her oven mitts for food handlers' gloves, picking up each bacon strip between forefinger and thumb and dropping them on slices of bread. Santana rolls her eyes when she notices that Rachel's also wearing a mask.

"Whatever, Berry," she concludes. She snags a bacon strip and pops it into her mouth – Rachel shrieks in outrage. "Hey, this is good."

"It is?" Kurt also snags a piece, eyebrows going up as he chews (Rachel swats at them both like they're flies). "Oh my god. I've just ruined my diet, but – who knew a vegetarian would cook bacon perfectly?"

"Quinn taught me," huffs Rachel, quickly bagging the sandwiches to protect them from the scavengers. "It's not that difficult to prepare compared to vegetarian bacon, really – though I don't plan on making it a regular event. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to wash up before I leave; the smell of bacon grease is rather cloying." And she disappears into her room.

"You should leave it on; it's like sex pollen to Q-Tip," calls Santana after her. "She'd follow you anywhere."

The grease-spotted apron Rachel was wearing sails out and flops pathetically at Santana's feet.

* * *

Rachel reappears later that evening with a radiant expression and Quinn's hand firmly clutched in hers.

Santana glances up from her laptop. "Oh, you found her. I was right about the sex pollen, wasn't I?"

" _Santana_ ," hisses Rachel.

"Ignore her," says Quinn airily, linking her arm with Rachel's. Santana blinks.

"The fuck?"

"You're not sleeping on the couch, I insist," Rachel says firmly, already leading the way to her room. "It's not good for your back, and – full disclosure – we got it off the sidewalk. It's been professionally cleaned, and we bought new cushions and covers, but – I'll be much happier if you had a proper mattress. Mine's a Tempurpedic, so I'm confident that you'll have a good night's sleep…" The rest of her monologue is cut off as they disappear behind the curtain (and Santana still can't believe she's not done talking yet).

Kurt appears from his own partition, headphones slung around his neck. "I thought I heard our favourite loudhailer," he says, half-joking. "Is she back? Was she victorious?"

"She's giving Kewpie Doll the Hilton tour. What do you think?"

He actually looks delighted; Santana stares at him for it, judging him not-so-silently. "What? Just because _you_ have the sentimentality of a used paper bag, doesn't mean _I_ don't think the entire thing is sweet. My god, Santana – " he lowers his voice conspiratorially, " – Rachel once made me buy her a new frying pan when I stayed over at her house in high school because I made pancakes _with eggs_ in them."

"So? I can tell you the only reason she's more chill now is because she's getting regular orgasms, and that mouth of hers is being put to better use than talking at us."

Kurt slams his hands over his ears so hard, Santana's actually surprised that he doesn't give himself a concussion. "Okay I did not need to hear that!" He backs off hurriedly and goes to Rachel's room, Santana's cackling following him.

* * *

Rachel has a social obligation she can't skip, so she leaves Quinn in Santana's care (Santana's words, not Rachel's) with strict instructions to be nice to each other until she gets back. Santana laughs until Quinn throws an embroidered cushion at her; Rachel smiles gratefully at Quinn and leaves.

They are so fucking mushy, she wants to puke up her breakfast. Santana thinks she might now have an idea of what it must have been like to be Sue Sylvester, except general human interaction was sufficient to induce nausea in the woman.

"You've gone soft, Fabray."

"She cooked bacon for me," says Quinn. Unbidden, her face cracks into a wide smile.

"Oh my god. I'd say you're whipped, but you're not even dating. This is just pathetic." She folds her arms over her chest, scowl deepening when Quinn doesn't even respond. "Oh for crying out loud… Tubbers, snap out of it." Santana snaps her fingers in front of Quinn's face several times; Quinn scowls and jerks backward.

"What the _hell_ , Santana."

"Oh good, you're alive," says Santana sardonically. "I was beginning to think you'd melted into goo."

Quinn gives her the finger. Santana just laughs at her, stands up, and says: "Get dressed, Quinnie; Mama Rachel said I'm in charge of feeding you, so let's get you fed." And she turns her back on Quinn, knowing full well retribution will come swiftly.

Quinn doesn't disappoint.

* * *

Rachel comes home, frowning when she catches sight of them. Santana doesn't understand why she has that expression on her face; there's no way she would have found out about what happened at the cafe _this_ quickly, and she and Quinn have managed to watch TV for the past hour in relative peace ( _relative_ meaning that no blood has been shed. Yet).

"What?"

"No. Nothing," says Rachel, relaxing into a smile. "I thought you guys might have killed each other before I got back."

"She wishes," mutters Quinn under her breath. Santana aims a kick at her shin, grinning when she hears a sharp intake of breath from across the couch. "Ow. You bitch."

"No, _you're_ my bitch. You know I could've totally taken you that time if Schue hadn't stepped in to save your ass."

Quinn sneers. "Yeah, if you were planning on smothering me with those lifebuoys you call boobs."

Santana makes a violent gesture – but Rachel chooses that moment to call Quinn's name from the kitchen, and Quinn immediately gets up.

"You kidding me, Fabray?" yells Santana after her.

Rachel sees her draped over the couch from behind Quinn. "Sorry, Santana, did you want something?"

"No, I'm good." She makes an obscene gesture at Quinn once Rachel's back is turned, which makes her feel a little better.

* * *

She's feeling a lot like Brittany's bratty little sister when they'd ignore her tea parties in favour of more grown-up fun. Santana doesn't ask for much but she's been told she can be unbearable when she doesn't get what she wants when she wants it (once, Sam told her she turned into a gremlin "like from the movie" when she didn't get the attention she wanted; he regretted it after).

Can you blame her, though? Santana's a simple person; she doesn't ask for much, so it's only reasonable that she gets whatever she asks for in a timely fashion.

And Santana wants sex, now. Like _now_ now.

Santana seizes her opportunity when Quinn heads out for something or other (she doesn't give a shit what, just as long as she won't be around to pussy-block her) and Kurt goes on a date. She barges into Rachel's room unannounced and flops down on the bed beside her.

Rachel sets aside her phone with a sigh. "What do you want?"

"You," she says, trailing a hand up Rachel's leg, propping herself up on an elbow, smirking.

Instead of smiling back at her, Rachel gets this furrowed expression, like she's been posed an impossible maths problem. "Santana…"

The smile slips off Santana's face. "What? What's wrong?"

"It's not you." She takes Santana's hand off her thigh, but keeps holding it. "Just… Quinn'll be sleeping here tonight."

She shrugs. "We'll go to my bed, then."

"She could come back anytime!"

"That didn't stop you the time Kurt caught us on the couch." That had been mortifying, of course, but the memory of the look on Kurt's face had kept her entertained for weeks. It was so worth her paying for the professional deep cleaning of the cushions. Plus, Rachel had only held out on her for three days afterwards. "Wait, Bottle Blondie totally knows about _us_ us, right?"

"Yeah. She knows the circumstances in which we ended up here, after I explained them. Quinn said she's fine with it."

Santana cackles. "And by explained, you bludgeoned her over the head with big words."

Rachel crosses her arms over her chest and glowers; Santana finds that an acceptable part of foreplay. "It's not the easiest social situation, having to explain to a mutual friend that two of her friends – one of whom she's slept with previously – are currently in a friends-with-benefits relationship. I had to reassure Quinn we wouldn't be making her feel uncomfortable or unwelcome in any way while she's staying here."

"Okay, babe," chuckles Santana. She rests her hands on Rachel's forearms, gently untangling them. "C'mon. No one's home but us, and I really want you, baby. You were so hot earlier, and I would have totally taken you there on the kitchen counter if Kurt hadn't been there."

"Santana!"

"You owe me. You got me all worked up the other day and I was nice to Quinn." She tugs on Rachel's hand, pouting. "Come _onnnn."_

"... oh, fine." Rachel hops off her bed primly and leads the way; Santana swears the exaggerated sway of her hips as she walks is for her benefit. She loves how Rachel insists on acting like she doesn't want this as much as Santana does, but retains enough presence of mind not to say it.

Rachel sits down on Santana's bed, parting her legs; she puts her hands on the back of Santana's thighs and guides her closer. Santana bends down to kiss her, gasping into Rachel's mouth when she feels hands fiddling with the front of her shorts.

"Fuck. You're eager."

"You said I owe you," says Rachel flatly – but there's a gleam in her eye that makes Santana's breath catch.

* * *

Sated and lazy from multiple orgasms (if anyone asks, Santana will insist that Rachel's not _that_ great; they've just done this often enough that she knows exactly what Santana likes), she goes back to her lounging spot on the couch. Rachel joins her after a quick shower, phone in her hand again.

Santana's on the verge of initiating a lazy make-out session when the loft door opens. "I come bearing gifts," announces Kurt, a tray from the coffee shop down the block in his hand.

She sighs happily when she inhales the aroma of her favourite caramel mocha. "I don't hate you," she tells him when he hands her the cup.

Kurt shares an eyeroll with Rachel. "Well, that just made my day," he drawls, and Rachel laughs. Santana gives them a quality glare before turning her attention to more important things – namely, the cup of heaven in her hands. Even though he's made up for it partway with coffee, Kurt's presence means Santana won't be getting any more in the near future, especially not with Quinn around. For some reason, Rachel's more neurotic than usual (read: approaching her sophomore year state of existence) in Quinn's presence.

"So when's Q-ball getting back?" she asks.

Rachel makes an annoyed little noise. " _Quinn_ is joining some people from the exhibition for dinner and drinks, so she won't be back until late."

"God, that last word would have been fine. How is it you can get me off in two minutes flat but still can't put together a short answer?"

Kurt goes magenta. "Oh, my god."

Rachel looks just as mortified – but, judging from the little glances she keeps shooting at Kurt, Santana can tell she's torn between a filthy, smart-ass answer and being considerate of Kurt's presence.

After a pause, Rachel reaches over and pinches Santana's arm; she yelps in pain.

"Speaking of _me getting you off_ , you can forget about doing that anytime this and next week," she says, with a pinched little smile, adding in an undertone: "I suggest reacquainting yourself with your hand."

Well. She's fucked – and not in a good way.

* * *

She has work, so she doesn't see Quinn off at the station. But Rachel's mopey as _fuck_ all evening – and unfortunately for Santana, determined to make good on her _no orgasms for you_ promise – so she can't promise her sex to cheer her up. She whips out her phone and delegates. By the time Santana gets home from her shift, Kurt and Rachel are tucked up on the couch, giggly and pink, with _The Golden Girls_ on TV, and glasses of wine in their hands.

"Looks like you guys are having fun," she says.

Rachel giggles. "All the fun," she slurs, already sloshed.

"Have you had dinner?

"We made pasta. There're leftovers in the fridge, if you want," Kurt points. Santana goes to investigate, grinning when she sees two separate containers. She takes out the one marked "FOR CARNIVORES" and pops it into the microwave.

"Thanks, Kurt. I might actually tolerate you."

"Bitch, you owe me."

Okay, so she really does owe him massive fucking big time for both the food, and for distracting Rachel; however, Santana's not the kind of person to say those things easily. She's glad that he gets her because he's just as much of a bitch as she is. "Yeah, maybe I do. Don't let it get to your head, I'm not sure you have enough hair to cover it all."

"Your old married couple bickering is drowning out my show," announces Rachel. She has her boyfriend pillow around her neck. "Additionally, it's upsetting Brad."

"Brad?"

"My boyfriend." She strokes the pillow's arm, giggling effervescently.

Kurt stares. "You named yours Brad?"

"I've always loved the name Brad ever since I saw Brad Pitt. The name Brad is so strong and masculine. I love the way it just rolls off your tongue. Brad. _Brraaaad_ ," she brays. "It was fitting, too, that yours is called Bruce so they match." They titter, and then turn matching demented grins on Santana.

Santana scowls. "Okay, stop looking at me like that, Wonder Twins. First of all, I'm not telling you what I named my fucking pillow," says Santana. "And you're both drunk."

(She named hers Brenda. They don't need to know that.)

* * *

The next time Quinn visits, Santana's careful to keep her smart-ass comments to herself. She's quickly learned that a happy Quinn equates to a happy Rachel, and a happy Rachel means more orgasms all around (still only in Quinn's absence, which Santana can live with. It just means she has to be more creative, and quicker).

And so Santana finds herself in a grungy little bar downtown that labels itself 'hipster', but really comes off as 'too broke to afford electricity and heat'. They're there for a girls' night out (and of course Rachel picks the bar with a karaoke stage), and Santana's beginning to think _karaoke_ and _Rachel_ together outweighs _multiple orgasms._

Until Rachel leans over and whispers: "I'll make it worth your while," following up with a wink.

Which has Santana grinning like a maniac, of course, until she notices that Quinn's expression has become rather rigid. It looks exactly like the expression she used to wear when braving a Sue Sylvester rant, or attending one of her parent-mandated society event.

"You okay, Q? You look like something crawled up your pussy and died."

"I'm fine," says Quinn a little too quickly, echoing the words for Rachel when she turns to Quinn. Rachel nods, looking all concerned, and says something about going back home if Quinn's not feeling up to it.

She thinks. She isn't sure, because she's preoccupied with getting a refill which she really needs, _right now_ , because she know Rachel's going to turn to her with her maniac killer grin and demand a duet.

When it happens, all thoughts of Quinn's unhappy face are pushed from her mind.

* * *

Rachel rearranges her schedule and takes off for New Haven for a long weekend when she catches wind of Quinn having a recital of some sort.

When she comes back, she's all soft and happy and chilled the fuck out, like she's on a Quinn high or something; Santana likes this new Rachel okay, but she kinda misses crazy Rachel (though she'll never say it out loud).

* * *

It's Rachel's turn to do the laundry but the basket is overflowing and smells evil. Santana goes on the warpath.

"Hobbit, I know you're home," she hollers, barging into Rachel's room, "why haven't you done your share of the shit?"

Rachel shoots her a glare just about as evil and noxious as their dirty laundry, popping an earbud out. "Give me a minute, Santana," she mutters, and turns her attention back to her laptop. "Sorry, it looks like I need to go. I'll be right back. Do you mind waiting? I can always call back…"

Santana totally peeks. She sees a very grainy Quinn smile. "Tell Barbie I say hi, and she's a bitch for hogging the laundry slave."

Rachel's first kick misses completely, but she manages to land a solid hit on Santana's shin later, while she's lugging the laundry downstairs.

* * *

So their holiday plans go like this: Quinn gets out of school a few days early, so she comes up to Bushwick to hang with them because they're all traveling back to Lima together (Rachel got a package deal on four tickets to Columbus which is a big deal since it's so close to Christmas).

"Behave," orders Rachel.

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

Rachel places her hands on her hips and glares; it would be totally fucking scary if she wasn't so tiny, and if Santana hasn't already seen some variation of the glare when she's making Rachel beg for an orgasm. "I understand you and Quinn have an unusual friendship, but I don't understand why you have to be so hostile all the time."

Santana scoffs. "Teen Mom knows I love her, and she fucking loves me too, even if she knows I'm a bigger bitch than she is."

Rachel sighs. She turns her attention back to the electronic arrival board.

When Quinn appears through the electronic fate gates, Rachel shrieks and practically mounts her; Quinn barely has time to drop her bag before she spreads her arms to catch Rachel. "You're here!"

Quinn laughs. "I'm here," she repeats, her fingers slowly prying Rachel's stranglehold off her neck.

Santana sees her wince, and grins at her. "Q. You look good." Santana doesn't do hugs. She sort of slings an arm at Quinn's shoulder in a half-hug, half-punch move. "Need help carrying your shit?"

"You're offering?" Quinn drawls, looking amused.

"No. We've got a token guy here for this, even if he barely passes for one underneath the sequined leather pants."

It's a testament to how solid their friendship is that Kurt simply arches an eyebrow at her, and tells Quinn that he'll take the bag regardless of whatever Santana says. Quinn tries to politely decline but Rachel jumps in. "Let Kurt carry it; you shouldn't aggravate your back more than absolutely necessary."

"It's fine. Really. I didn't pack _that_ much."

"Nonsense, Quinn. Look, I wouldn't consider myself being unfit because I have a rigorous elliptical regime I have maintained since middle school, and I can barely lift this." She tugs on the handles dramatically, adding a little 'oof' for emphasis. "You'll have the added encumbrance of maneuvering this on the subway."

"Look, Stretch Marks. Just shut up and let Hummel carry the damn bag otherwise the chihuahua will snap at our ankles the whole way back," interjects Santana, earning an affronted gasp from Rachel. It works, though; Quinn rolls her eyes and hands the duffel to Kurt, going to link her arm with a seething Rachel's (presumably plotting revenge with her, if the heated whispering that follows is anything to go by). Whatever it is, it cheers Rachel up immensely.

"For someone who likes sex as much as you do," remarks Kurt, falling into step behind them, "you certainly love relegating yourself to the metaphorical couch."

"I'm willing to make sacrifices for the greater good, okay."

"Sure," he drawls.

"They've been tag-teaming a lot recently," says Santana. "It's creepy. Those two are scary as friends."

Kurt whirls around in shock; the duffel's arc almost takes out a man, who swears at them vividly. Kurt doesn't seem to notice. "You haven't realised?"

"Realised what?"

"Oh. Oh, that explains so much." He looks absolutely gleeful, which unnerves Santana a bit. "You really haven't noticed at all...?"

Santana scowls. "Clearly not."

"Well, if you don't know, I'm not about to tell you."

"That doesn't make any sense!"

* * *

They go out to the Met the next day because Quinn casually mentioned over breakfast that she's never been. Naturally, Rachel practically falls over herself to plan a trip there. Santana wouldn't call herself an uncultured boor, but her idea of art is Brittany dancing (though she loudly informs her friends that it's Amy Winehouse's body of work). Either way, it's not old paintings in stuffy halls.

But Quinn looks excited as shit to be here – and by osmosis or whatever the fuck it is from being around her, Rachel is too – so Santana agrees to not be a bitch as she usually would be about this. She doesn't even need the promise of sex, for crying out loud.

"I can be civilized when I want to, okay," she tells an amused Kurt.

"Okay," he says. "So does that mean you're not gonna be making dirty jokes about all the paintings?"

"I said civilized. I didn't say dead."

He's not the biggest fan of art either, so they stick together, trailing behind Quinn and Rachel. Santana keeps up a running ribald commentary about the artwork, drawing both glares (mostly from Rachel) and amused glances (from strangers, and occasionally from Quinn).

Eventually she tires. Kurt gets distracted by "tasteful male nudes" (his words, not hers).

"You need to get laid."

"Shut up, Satan."

Santana catches up with Quinn and Rachel. Rachel, who's been hanging off Quinn's arm for the better part of the day, points out a massive oil painting.

"Look at that painting. Isn't it beautiful?"

"Beautiful," Quinn echoes, in reverent tones. She isn't looking at the painting.

Rachel beams at her and drags them off to another work, mispronouncing the artist's name (Quinn patiently corrects her) and demanding an explanation of what she's supposed to be looking at.

Except Santana's still staring after them like, _what the fuck?_

She thinks she might have a clue what Kurt was going on about.

* * *

Santana knows she isn't the sort of person who's in touch with her feelings. She didn't know what she had with Brittany was something special until she'd almost lost it, for fuck's sake – _and_ through her own stupidity no less. To be fair, she didn't have much incentive to not be a fucking idiot about her feelings and her sexuality. It said tons about her situation that it was better for her reputation that she sleep around indiscriminately rather than date a girl.

But this is New York. People of all shapes and sizes and colours of the sexual orientation flag fill the streets. Rachel's always declared the city to be her true home; privately, Santana's beginning to think it's the same for her.

(She would have loved to share it with Brittany, but reality sucks. Whatever.)

Kurt begged off their outing early with some lame excuse (the traitor – she's going to give him so much grief the next time she sees him), leaving Santana alone with Quinn and Rachel. Which would be okay, actually – Quinn's like, her long-time fellow bitch, and Rachel's this girl who she bangs sometimes and tolerates otherwise – if they'd actually pay attention to her once in a while. She feels like a third wheel on a date, with how Rachel carries on, and how Quinn lets her. Or worse – the bratty kid who acts out to get attention from her ridiculously mushy parents.

* * *

It hits Santana like a grand piano from an old cartoon when they're having a late lunch and Rachel's excused herself to the bathroom. "Oh my god, you're in love with Berry."

Quinn shushes her frantically. "Say it a little louder, why don't you, Santana," she hisses, "I'm fairly certain there are a few people in Queens that haven't heard you."

"You goddamned pressed lemon," says Santana, sounding awed. It feels like a curtain's been lifted as all the puzzle pieces fall into place. "I finally get what Brittany meant when she called you that. You just want to press Berry's juices." She squints at Quinn. "Y'know, you never looked like that when you were with Fuckerman or Trouty Mouth or even Finnessa. All soft and happy."

"I'm not going to dignify that with a response," replies Quinn, wrinkling her nose.

"Didn't you just…?"

Quinn levels a quality I-Am-The-Head-Bitch-And-You-Are-Pissing-Me-Off glare at Santana, who opens her mouth to snap out a response –

"Sorry I took so long," says Rachel, sitting down, "there was a queue, even just for the mirrors; honestly, I fail to understand why some women feel the need to reapply mascara halfway through a meal."

"It's fine, Rachel," replies Quinn.

And now that she knows what to look for, Santana doesn't miss the way Quinn's expression just _melts_ when she looks at Rachel. " _Whipped_ ," she mouths across the table, and grimaces when Quinn kicks her, hard.

* * *

Much later, Santana realises that while Quinn never confirmed her accusation, she didn't deny anything either.

* * *

Santana corners Rachel in a dance studio in NYADA, where she's sure they won't be interrupted. "You're in love with Quinn," she declares.

Rachel pales, then reddens. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do." She takes a step closer. "The two of you have always given off this weird vibe, and it turns out all along you were just repressing the urge to mount each other repeatedly and noisily."

"Nonsense," says Rachel briskly. "Quinn and I have existed on a continuum between rivalry and friendship for years; it stands to reason that other people have difficulty understanding our dynamic, especially given our history."

"I didn't get any of that bullshit because it didn't make sense."

Rachel huffs her annoyance, but doesn't say anything.

"You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think," says Santana, "that you're scared."

"Excuse me?"

"You're scared that Quinn might run away if you tell her what you're feeling, and that everything will have been in vain. You've spent years chasing after guys who never wanted you until there wasn't anything better around."

Rachel has been pressing her lips together as Santana talks. She opens her mouth, now, to say something, but Santana is relentless.

"Quinn is never gonna be the one to crack first; you know that. You're not gonna risk losing her either. So you make do with the next closest thing – yours truly – because it's safe, I'm available, and I'm not leaving you anytime soon. There's no risk because you know I'm not gonna develop feelings for you so you won't hurt me, and all of yours are reserved for her."

Her face collapses suddenly. "Tell me what I should do," says Rachel.

"Nuh-uh. I'm not the goddamned lesbian whisperer. You sort out your own mess. My part here is done now that I've gotten your head out of your ass."

Rachel looks even more lost. "And us…?"

Santana shakes her head. Honestly, this girl couldn't even buy a clue if she had a platinum card. "Did you think I would want to be up in your junk if you're gonna be screaming Moby Dick's name?"

"No," Rachel says, surprisingly soft. "We were only a distraction while we figured out who we really wanted."

The situation's gotten too emotional and mushy for her tastes. "Damn right," declares Santana, bringing the mood back to safe levels (ie. spoiling it, judging from the sour look on Rachel's face).

"... I'm going to hug you now."

"Wait, no."

Rachel presses her face into Santana's neck. "Thank you. For everything."

Santana sighs. There's no one to watch, so she squeezes Rachel just as tightly back. "No; thank _you_ , Rach." Her hands rest at the small of Rachel's back. "No chance of another round for the road?"

Rachel pulls away, beaming. "No."

"Damn. Not gonna lie; doing it up against a mirror in here would be so hot. Plus – doing the nasty in Cassie's studio? Biggest middle finger ever."

"Santana, please stop talking."

"I know that tone. You just don't want me to talk you into it. I know you want it too. No one's here. We'll be quick; you're so turned on I bet I can get you off in a minute."

" _Santana_."

"Sure, we might get caught but that's half the fun. I know you've got a serious exhibitionism kink, Berry; no one chooses Broadway for a living without loving performance of all kinds, if you catch my – ow! Fuck off! Okay, okay! Jeez. I was only joking."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** And here's part 2! Rejoice, friends; here's the Faberry smut you've been patiently waiting for (if you haven't, you're just lying to yourself). Also contains a ridiculous amount of Faberry fluff that I hope makes up for the waiting.

* * *

Rachel Berry has never liked labels.

As the daughter of two gay men in a small town, she's battled labels, preconceived notions, and what-have-you almost since the day she was born. She's grown up with hurtful nicknames and things being thrown at her…

… and that's not including the abuse directed at her for simply being argyle-wearing, constantly-singing, Rachel Berry.

Her life is filled with hardships, but not so insurmountable that she wouldn't inevitably succeed (just enough to pad out her biography with riveting details of how she overcame said hardships). But it would have been truly unbearable if she'd been anything but completely, utterly heterosexual.

She thinks Finn Hudson in his football uniform is the best thing since facon, and Noah Puckerman singing while playing his guitar makes her want to swoon into his rugged arms. But Rachel's eyes also follow Brittany Pierce's legs when she dances, her tiny Cheerios skirt lifting to show even more skin. She gets hot under the collar listening to Santana sing.

Rachel doesn't believe in labels and numbers and points on the Kinsey scale. She's just attracted to talent, good looks, and gender; in that order.

Anyway, it didn't matter. Until recently, she lived in Lima, Ohio; a place that wasn't known for its open-mindedness with regards to sexual orientation (and yet, managed to produce the sexually and racially diverse William McKinley High, Class of 2012). It made sense that she should only begin to explore her sexuality after moving to the city of her dreams, even if her experimentation began completely by accident when she woke up naked next to Santana Lopez.

She prided herself on not having panicked. She'd practiced for the myriad of awkward social situations she was certain to encounter in the real world. Waking up reeking of alcohol and sex while cuddling with Santana was – admittedly – not one of the situations she'd rehearsed but Rachel was fairly confident in her improv skills.

The difficult part was deciding what Santana Lopez was to her.

Rachel loves Santana, but not in the way in that she wants to settle down and have beautiful children with (after she'd won her EGOT and Santana was successful in whatever career she'd chosen). No, she'd already made a mental note that Santana was going to be that chapter in her biography as the woman she gained life experiences with for channeling into her performances. She'd already earned her place in the chapter on her early years as one of her closest friends.

Plus, orgasms. No one else had ever made Rachel feel _that_ good.

She was relieved when Santana expressed a similar disinterest in a relationship (but a willingness for casual sex).

Rachel still doesn't know what she's looking for, but she's Rachel Berry; she'll know what it is when she finds it someday. Soon.

Any moment now.

* * *

Right now, though, Rachel Berry is a mess.

It had been a week since Santana confronted her at school, and she'd had ample time to digest all the revelations that had been dropped in her lap.

"Am I a horrible person?"

"Yeah," says Santana without hesitation, "about time you realised."

Rachel sighs. She had been expecting an answer along those lines; she doesn't know what possessed her to ask Santana anyway. Perhaps it was a little too much to be looking for constructive criticism from her ex-tormentor (and now ex-fuck buddy), but…

Rachel has seriously limited options in terms of friends. And she's not about to consult the one person whose opinion really matters about her attractiveness, anyway.

The sound of the television suddenly stops. "Okay, what's wrong, midget?"

"Nothing's wrong," answers Rachel reflexively. She's already making alternative plans; if the conversation doesn't progress positively, she's bailing out and finding Kurt.

Santana makes a noise of irritation. "I'm muting _Jersey Shore_ for you, so make this quick."

"... you already answered my question, so I believe that the conversation is over."

Santana sighs. "Oh, for… you don't ask questions like that while I'm distracted, Rach. You know I'm a bitch when I'm interrupted."

Rachel can't resist saying: "You're a bitch all the time."

"True. But I can be less of a bitch when shit goes down." Santana frowns at her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," repeats Rachel. "I'm simply feeling rather insecure regarding my attractiveness and was seeking an honest opinion. You're one of the few people I can talk to about that, given our recent status as friends with benefits."

"Uh huh," says Santana. "Does this have anything to do with Illegally Blonde?"

"Surely it won't kill you to use her name just once?" mutters Rachel under her breath. "No, this has nothing to do with Quinn."

"Bullshit. You're obsessed with her; and the hilarious thing is, she's obsessed with you too. You should be having hot lesbian monkey sex with her right now instead of whining to me."

"I'm not _whining_." It came out a lot more petulant than she'd intended.

"Whatever, Rach." Even if the television was muted, Santana's eyes were still glued to it. "She really fucking loves you. I don't know why, but she does. You could tell her she looked way hotter back when she had pink hair, and she'd trip over herself rushing for the dye." Santana tears her gaze from the screen. "Hey, that would be hilarious. You should do that."

"Certainly not."

Santana makes a disappointed sound.

Rachel sighs, rubbing at her face with a hand. She slides low in her seat, mumbling: "I'm scared" under her breath.

If Santana heard, she gave no sign; but she sidled close enough so Rachel could lean her head against a shoulder and that was good enough.

* * *

"I don't get it," says Quinn. "The last time we talked, you were suggesting I go up to New York so you could take me to this place you saw online, and now – you're saying _you_ should come to New Haven instead."

"Yes, exactly."

"What changed?"

"Well…" The real reason, of course, is Rachel really doesn't need Santana's encouragement of her and Quinn's relationship. The beginning of one, really.

Not when she knows Santana as well as she does. The woman is like a dog with a bone when it comes to a goal she's set her focus on. Rachel smiles as the image of Santana Lopez as a huge Rottweiler pops into her head.

"Rachel?"

The smile turns sheepish with embarrassment. "Sorry. I was marshalling my thoughts. I did a study of our interactions since high school…"

"Of course you did," mutters Quinn. Rachel ignores her.

"... and found that you've spent a disproportionately greater number of hours in New York than I have in New Haven, even though we both hold train passes of equal value. While I commend the value you're getting out of your pass, it's simply not fair that you're spending so much time commuting compared to me."

Quinn makes a small, irritated noise. "Rachel, it's not a matter of being fair. You, Santana, and Kurt are all in New York. The city's much bigger than New Haven, with more things to see and do."

"I'd like to see _your_ city," supplies Rachel.

"You've already seen my tiny student town."

She's running out of excuses. "... I'd just like to spend some time with you, alone," slips out before Rachel can stop it.

There's a lengthy pause. When Rachel finally summons the courage to lift her face out of her hands, she's met by a – if her eyes aren't deceiving her – very red Quinn.

"Uhm. Okay. If that's what you want, I…" Quinn clears her throat, "how about this weekend? You could come stay in my dorm. I'll… I'll let my roommate know."

"I'd like that a lot," confesses Rachel. Her stomach turns flip-flops that go ignored.

* * *

As it turns out, Melissa – Quinn's roommate – is also planning a weekend getaway of her own ("I wouldn't ask if I were you," remarks Quinn wryly on the phone) and is more than okay with having Rachel stay over.

Rachel's thrilled. She was made for New York, but sometimes she just wants to take a step back and enjoy quiet streets. A cup of coffee dragged out over a few hours with Quinn. An afternoon not punctuated by sirens and yelling, but spent talking to Quinn.

Did she mention Quinn yet?

Santana takes an alternative view. "Let's face it, Rachel; you just don't want to share Teen Mom with me and Porcelain."

Rachel glares at her. "You know that's not true, Santana."

"Do I?" She arches an eyebrow dramatically. "Come over here and tell me to my face you aren't glad that Preggo's roomie won't be in, letting you have Blondie allllll to yourself. All her attention, all her focus, all her long limpid puppy-dog –"

"That's enough."

Santana drops her teasing voice. "Does she know?"

"Santana…"

"You haven't told her?"

Rachel chews on her bottom lip. "It's complicated."

"Of course. And since when have you been easy? Apart from in bed, of course…"

"You don't understand," growls Rachel, stung by the ill-timed jab. As a rule, she tolerates Santana's poor attempts at sexual humour but she's too upset at the moment. "I can't lose Quinn."

"Funny. I thought having a big ol' lesbian crush means escalating friendly things into sexy things."

"What if she doesn't feel the same way?" With that soft confession, Rachel feels her last defences give way.

She can see Santana's demeanour soften. "She does, Rachel. I know you know this."

"How do _you_ know for sure?"

Her friend is silent. Rachel's fairly certain they're thinking of the same things: slushies and boyfriends in common, Prom Queen campaigns and wheelchairs. But there are things she knows that Santana doesn't.

Like their run-ins in bathrooms, and talks on Prom Nights. A specially-chosen corsage of white gardenias, with a green ribbon around them.

"I just know," says Santana eventually. She doesn't look directly at Rachel. "Look – I've known Q as long as you have, but we've been on talking terms longer – "

Rachel snorts.

" – and she definitely cares about you. She's opened up more to you in the past year than to anyone else, like ever."

"That doesn't mean she – I'm _Rachel Berry_ , Santana. She's Quinn Fabray."

"And _I'm_ Santana Lopez." She crosses her arms over her chest and stares at Rachel. "There was a time when I'd rather lick dirt off the bottoms of Sue Sylvester's shoes than be seen talking to you in public, and yet, here we are." Santana spreads her hands. "So you wanna stop whining like a little bitch now and tell Aunty Snix what's really on your mind?"

"…"

"…"

"... Okay, fine," grumbles Rachel. Under Santana's expectant gaze, she says: "... I'm not good enough for her."

"Excuse me? No, excuse _you_. Are you trying to tell me that Rachel Berry, Queen of Slushies, Empress of Annoying the Fuck Out of Humanity, Duchess of Delivering Painful Monologues, thinks she isn't good enough for Quinn Fabray?"

Rachel colours. "You didn't need to put it like that, but… yes."

Santana opens her mouth; Rachel winces. But instead of the loud and angry tirade she's expecting, Santana just sighs.

"I'm sorry."

Rachel blinks. "Whatever for?"

"Making you think you're not good enough."

"You had nothing to do with that."

"Now, maybe. But high school?"

Rachel looks away.

"We all knew you spent recess crying in the bathroom, and we thought it was funny. We liked the fact you had no friends. We spent time thinking of more ways to cut you down. I was a horrible person. There's no getting around that." Santana rubs at a spot on her arm. "Things may be different now, but you can't pretend it didn't leave its mark on you, Rachel. Just like I can't pretend it never happened."

She chews on her lower lip pensively. Rachel remembers every bit of the pain she'd felt, remembers promising herself she'd get out of Lima and come back only when she's famous and successful, just to laugh at her high school bullies when they'd inevitably settled into their dead-end lives.

"I've forgiven you a long time ago," says Rachel. "I think it's about time you forgave yourself." She walks forward, taking Santana's hand and rubbing the back of it with her thumb. "You're more than a bad experience or a high school bully, Santana. You're one of the most amazing people I know, and my best friend."

Santana smiles, shaking her head. "You're really something else, midget," she says. Her eyes glisten visibly. "Only you would turn this into an emotionally-charged moment."

"I wouldn't be me if I didn't," jokes Rachel.

"It just goes to show you're definitely good enough for her."

"... You really think?"

"Well, duh."

Rachel laughs, and rests her head against Santana's shoulder. "May I…?"

"No."

"Santana."

"... fine. Make it quick."

Rachel rolls her eyes. She puts her arms around Santana's waist and squeezes briefly.

* * *

Wearing Santana's blessing like armour, Rachel boards her train, and finds herself a window seat.

Their talk stirred up more emotions than she could process – though, luckily, she had been able to get closure on the important things. Rachel remembers hating the small-minded people of her town with a fire that astounded her even now.

The hardcore bullying, at least, had been limited to her as a person. That was fine; she'd been raised by her dads to handle that. It was the general revulsion that they found outside as a family that rankled. That was the reason they'd stopped having public family outings when Rachel was fairly young. That was the reason she usually only went out with one of her dads at a time. That was the reason why her dad, Leroy, had been stuck at the same rank for fifteen years at the Lima Police Department, and her daddy, Hiram, had never received the pay raise that was promised with his promotion and increase in responsibilities.

Rachel counts herself lucky that the popular kids went after her appearance and her talent, her perceived lack of social skills, rather than where she came from and who her parents were.

The train lurches into motion. The changing scenery outside turns Rachel's thoughts to less depressing topics, like New Haven and Quinn.

* * *

Quinn is waiting for her on the other end of the gantry as promised. Rachel flies into her arms, almost knocking out an old lady who had the misfortune of being on Quinn's left and thus within the swinging radius of Rachel's traveling bag. Quinn has to rescue her from the scolding.

Once they've escaped safely, Quinn drops Rachel's hand and gives her a proper 'hello' hug. "You look great," says Quinn, stepping back to appraise Rachel.

"Before or after my murder attempt?"

"Both," Quinn laughs.

Rachel blushes, in spite of herself. "I'm assuming you would be willing to visit me in prison, then?"

"Of course." Quinn takes Rachel's bag (over the latter's vociferous protests) and leads the way out of the station. "Are you hungry? There's a nice cafe a few blocks over; I like the food there."

"Quinn! My bag, please," says Rachel, laughing. She makes a playful jump for the bag.

"Come on, Rach; you're not _that_ short."

"Well, maybe your arms are just that much longer." Rachel doesn't mind playing the fool as long as she can keep that smile on Quinn's face. "Quinn Fabray, give me my bag this minute or I will be forced to take extreme action."

"What are you gonna do? Sing at me?"

Rachel mock-pouts. "You talk as though it hasn't worked in the past; I find expressing oneself through song very effective, and cathartic at the same time." While Quinn's distracted, Rachel makes a grab for the bag and comes away triumphant. "Aha!"

Quinn rolls her eyes at Rachel playfully. "If you won't let me hold your bag, you could at least let me hold something else of yours." Before Rachel can respond, she takes one of Rachel's hands and tugs her down the street.

They're halfway down the block when Rachel realises they're moving, because everything has slowed to a standstill, and nothing is happening outside of her hand in Quinn's. They've held hands plenty of times before – most of those times, she initiated it – but it's different now.

Rachel curls her fingers around Quinn's, gripping back. Quinn turns her head to beam at her. Rachel's heart promptly attempts to beat its way out of her chest.

"Are you okay, Rach?"

"Hmmm?" She's not staring. Not at all.

"You look a little flushed," offers Quinn.

"It's the cold. And the exercise I got liberating my bag."

Quinn tilts her head to one side. "Think you've worked up an appetite, then?"

Rachel chuckles. She angles her palm downwards so she can entwine her fingers with Quinn's. She could get used to this. "Definitely."

* * *

Rachel's relieved (and maybe a tad disappointed) that Quinn's plans for the day involve doing absolutely nothing in the room. Frankly, she's not sure how she's been able to function up to this point; Santana's revelation about Quinn has turned her into a hyper-aware blushing mess each time Quinn looks at her.

She feels so, so stupid. She's in love with Quinn – it's so obvious even Santana 'In-Complete-Denial-of-Her-Lesbian-Status' Lopez can tell. Rachel doesn't doubt that Quinn reciprocates those feelings to a certain extent.

But she's Quinn Fabray. Quinn runs whenever she's scared, confused, or upset; basically, her default response to things outside her comfort zone is to run for the hills and never look back.

What if she isn't ready to acknowledge whatever's between them? What if Quinn genuinely thinks that the way they carry on is how female best friends act, and her feelings are strictly platonic? What if Santana's wrong, and she's been hanging her hopes on something that was never there?

Rachel blinks. Quinn's waving a hand in front of her face. "Broadway calling," she says, lips twitching as she fights to keep the smirk from her face. "They're saying you've been nominated for a Tony."

"Sorry. In my head, I was giving my acceptance speech, and you can understand how appealing that was that I'd want to daydream a little longer," lies Rachel.

"Right." Quinn sheepishly gestures at her overladen desk. "As I was saying earlier, I've got a paper due next Tuesday, so I need to get it done before we get to do anything fun," she says.

"Next Tuesday…?" Rachel places her hands on her hips. "Quinn Fabray, you were planning on coming to New York while on a deadline?"

The sheepish expression grows – if it's even possible – more sheepish. "It's more or less done. I just need to go over my formatting and references. It's not a big deal, Rach."

She relaxes her mock-severe stance. "Oh. Good. That's a relief; you know I'm not a fan of last-minute work. It's sloppy, and it's incredibly stressful." Rachel walks over to squint critically at the handwritten notes on the table. "But then again, your constant presence on the honor roll in school, and now Ivy League, clearly indicates you have no problems with time management or academic ability."

"Was that a compliment I detect, buried somewhere in that speech?"

Rachel smiles, utterly charmed. "Give yourself a little more credit, Quinn. There were at least two compliments in there."

Her friend smiles. Quinn seats herself at the desk, pulling a laptop from somewhere under the pile of books. "Melissa lent me her laptop, so you can watch something on mine while I finish this paper up, then we'll go have dinner. Deal?"

"Deal." She takes the laptop, smiling at the photo they took of their Glee club reunion last December Quinn has as her desktop wallpaper. "You're adorable."

"What?"

"This is adorable," says Rachel. "Your desktop wallpaper."

"Oh." Quinn shrugs, her attention already focused on the document in front of her. "I don't really download high-res images, so it was this or one of the default images."

"It doesn't take that much time to download a wallpaper."

"Mmmhmm."

Rachel sighs and gives it up as a lost cause. She clicks the browser open to search for some pictures she's certain Quinn will like; at the same time, she browses Quinn's movie collection.

* * *

She's so engrossed in the movie that she doesn't register that Quinn's sitting beside her until she feels a gentle yank on her right earbud, and Quinn says: "I'm done."

"Oh," says Rachel. She rolls her shoulders, marvelling at how stiff they feel. "Already?"

Quinn quirks an eyebrow. "Rachel, it's eight."

Her mouth falls open a little. "But we got here at four."

"Exactly." Quinn glances at the screen, and giggles. " _Atlantis_? Really, Rach?"

"Not all of my interests lie strictly in music," she huffs. "I greatly enjoy the movie's nascent use of computer-generated imagery, and the shift in Disney's storytelling style away from the traditional princess musicals. Besides," adds Rachel slyly, "this is _your_ movie collection. You love this movie too."

"Mostly, I thought Helga Sinclair was hot when I was a kid." Quinn shrugs, and slides off the bed to get her coat. "Shall we go? You must be starving."

"You – Quinn Fabray! You can't make a statement like that and act so nonchalant about it!" Rachel follows Quinn out the door, slipping into her overcoat as she waits for Quinn to lock the room.

"What? It's not a big deal." Quinn leads the way downstairs to the lobby. "What do you feel like having? Asian or Mexican?"

"We will return to this topic of discussion later," says Rachel. "I enjoy both cuisines immensely. Since this is your territory, you should pick something you like."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Mexican it is," she says. She nudges Rachel in the direction of the main doors, and takes a left out of the campus. "One of my friends in my Dramatic Analysis class discovered the place when she was drunk out of her mind, and brought us there. They have excellent vegetarian alternatives, they even got a write-up in Yale's newsletter."

Rachel's stomach growls immediately. She blushes.

"At least someone's excited," teases Quinn.

"It's just late." Rachel focuses on the sidewalk. "Back to Helga Sinclair. I didn't know you showed an appreciation for the female form at such an early age."

Quinn groans. "It's not what you're thinking, Rachel; I was fat. She's blonde, athletic, and hella badass. I was fascinated by her." She tugs on Rachel's sleeve to guide her to the right, away from the woman walking her dog. "She didn't take any shit from the men."

"I was more interested in Kida, actually. She's the spunky princess who fights for what she believes is the right thing, both for herself and her people. Even if she _was_ indisposed for the climax of the movie, and had to be rescued."

"Be honest. You'd like her better if she had a big 'I-want' song," says Quinn. She points across the street. "That's the place."

Rachel doesn't have the chance to respond as they enter the restaurant and are seated, but it hardly matters.

* * *

She can't remember whose idea it was to order margaritas, but three hours later, they're out on the cold, dark streets and swaying gently in the direction of the dorms.

"I can't believe you volunteered yourself as entertainment," says Quinn.

"They have a stage and a fairly competent backing band. It was practically calling my name."

"They're a mariachi band. You may be the most talented singer to leave Lima, but the only mariachi song you know is _La Cucaracha_."

Rachel ignores the gentle insult in favour of focusing on the compliment. "Quinn, don't exaggerate. I'm hardly the most talented ever. In recent years, maybe, but all of our fellow Glee clubbers are just as talented, if not more so; my skills begin and end at singing."

"You write songs, too."

" _We_ wrote songs."

"I didn't."

"You inspired me." Rachel remembers being upset in the immediate aftermath of their confrontation, but older and wiser now, she looks back on it as a valuable character growth exercise – not to mention a rare peek into what made Quinn Fabray tick.

She has never been more thankful for her flawless memory.

"You know," says Rachel casually, "I was thinking of getting a tattoo next year."

"Really? Of what? Gold stars?"

"No."

"Yes."

"Not just gold stars," she defends herself. "Just one small one on my hip, and a constellation somewhere else, I haven't decided. I wanted lyrics from _Get It Right._ "

Quinn suddenly looks much less inebriated than she was five minutes ago. "That song?"

"Of course. It was a pivotal point in our relationship, and it won us Regionals." Rachel doesn't mention that with the benefit of hindsight, she would have dedicated it to Quinn and not Finn. "If you think I'm good at songwriting, you should consider a career as a muse."

"I'll be glad to issue you tearful monologues on demand telling you why you shouldn't have Finn Hudson, that will inspire you to write the next Top 40 hit," says Quinn dryly.

Rachel makes a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "I can't believe we spent so much time fighting over Finn, especially now that you're in Yale and I'm in New York, and he's – "

" – in Lima, having taken over Kurt's dad's tire shop," finishes Quinn. She unlocks the door of her dorm room and lets Rachel in, closing the door behind them. "You should also mention my clairvoyant skills."

"No way. You screwed up three of your predictions. You're not married to Finn, you're not a successful real estate agent, I…" Rachel trails off. She was about to say that she _did_ get it right, she went right on looking for that happy ending and found it.

Well, it _would_ be a happy ending if Quinn cooperates.

"Three?" Quinn hangs up their coats and sprawls on her bed.

Rachel clears her throat. "I don't hate you for sending me on my way," she says. While certainly not what she had in mind, it's true as well. "And even though I was already destined for New York, I appreciate the gesture." She joins Quinn on the bed, stealing a pillow and hugging it to her cheek.

Quinn mutters something that Rachel doesn't catch. She stretches and yawns; the hem of her sweater rides up a little, revealing a strip of smooth pale skin that catches Rachel's eye immediately. Rachel tears her gaze away a second later, but Quinn notices.

"I'm not a pay-per-view, Berry."

"Quinn!" She can't stop smiling, though; the mental image of a scantily-clad Quinn is undeniably just as appealing as it's degrading. Quinn has always been a fantastic dancer. Rachel's mind drifts, unbidden, to a steamy vision of Quinn in fishnet stockings and a leather corset, legs wrapped around a pole…

"What did I just say?" Quinn's voice filters into her head, sounding incredibly amused.

Rachel arranges her expression into something nonchalant. "I wasn't looking at anything."

"Please. Who said you were? I was just gonna say that you had this look on your face that reminded me of Finn."

"And what did that look like?"

"Hungry. Aroused. Constipated. One of the three. It's pretty hard to tell with Finn."

"I don't appreciate the comparison." Rachel rests her head on Quinn's upper arm tentatively, sighing in relief when Quinn doesn't squirm away. "My thoughts were simply elsewhere." In an attempt to change the subject, she reaches for the laptop and drags it closer. "Are you tired? Should we watch something?"

"I'm not sleepy. We should watch _Atlantis_ , since you started without me."

"You were occupied. I had to keep myself entertained."

"Excuses," says Quinn. She sits up, leaning back against the mound of pillows at the headboard of the bed, motioning for Rachel to join her. Rachel, missing her makeshift pillow, snuggles into Quinn's side, and tries not to squee when she feels Quinn's other arm wrap around her shoulders. Quinn replays the movie, and they watch it in silence.

This time around, Rachel focuses on Helga Sinclair. Being one of the villains, she'd never really paid much attention to the character but what Quinn said makes her think. Now, she sees a lot of head Cheerio Quinn Fabray in the character's bearing and demeanour, and smiles to herself.

"Penny for your thoughts?" asks Rachel after the movie.

Quinn smirks. "Is that all they're worth?"

"Of course not," huffs Rachel. "I'm not sure if you're aware, but that's a common figure of speech. I would think someone who reads as much as you do would know that."

"Relax, Rachel. I was just making fun of you. You're cute when you're riled." She closes the laptop. "I'm going to wash up. You can take Melissa's bed. Remind me to wash the sheets and stuff before you leave." Quinn leaves before Rachel can comment.

* * *

The next morning, she wakes up bright and early – only to find Quinn already up before her, and with breakfast. "I knew you'd be awake early," she says. "Surprise."

Rachel tries not to laugh. "Well, you got me. I'm suitably impressed." Her eyes fall on the brown cardboard tray. "Green smoothies?"

"Of course."

"You're perfect," slips out before Rachel can stop it. She clears her throat, and quickly says: "I'm going for a run. Would you like to join me?"

"I'm the host; I should be asking you what you'd like to do." Quinn smirks. "But it's a good thing I was gonna ask you to go running with me."

"Excellent. Let me get changed, and I'll be ready soon."

* * *

They've been friends long enough that Rachel knows Quinn loves her morning runs when she doesn't have anything else scheduled. She lets Quinn set the pace as they jog through the sleepy town. Normally, when she's alone, she has her playlist of inspiring songs; now, she forgoes her music in favour of Quinn's company.

However, it's the first time she's actually accompanied Quinn on said morning runs, and while she has her beloved elliptical and dance classes, Quinn was a Cheerio under Sue Sylvester for most of high school.

"Let's take a break," says Quinn, sounding amused. Rachel tries not to look too enthusiastically happy as she nods, and slows to a walk. She tries not to pout at the fact Quinn sounds barely out of breath considering the punishing pace she was setting.

Quinn catches the pout anyway. "Cheerio," she says, pointing at herself.

"How could I have forgotten." The short, short skirts of the uniform were one of the many highlights of Rachel's day, right next to Finn Hudson's crooked grin – even after she'd been slushied.

"You're doing pretty good, though – most of my other running buddies couldn't keep up for long."

"Sue Sylvester is insane."

Quinn shrugs. She goes through a series of stretches that sorely test Rachel's ability to keep from drooling. "She is, but she produces results. It's the only reason she's gotten away with as much as she has."

"Come to think of it, you're insane as well, for wanting to put yourself through that."

"Oh, that was never in question," laughs Quinn. "You would have to be at least a little cuckoo to do some of the stuff I've done."

Rachel looks up. "Such as?"

"Nice try, Berry. I'm not drunk enough for that." Quinn takes off without warning; after a split-second of standing there baffled, Rachel follows. "Last one back at the dorm buys brunch," she calls over her shoulder.

"Quinn, that's not fair! You have homeground advantage, and furthermore, you didn't give me time to adequately prepare myself!"

* * *

Rachel tries not to look too smug as she sits down at the table – a direct contrast to the sulky petulance on Quinn's face. "I'm really going to enjoy my meal today," she says.

"You only won," mutters Quinn, "because you're my guest, and I let you."

"In that case, I certainly appreciate your hospitality." The waitress returns with their food – garden omelette for Rachel, scrambled eggs and bacon for Quinn – and Rachel takes a deep, exaggerated sniff. "The sweet smell of victory."

Quinn steals a mushroom off Rachel's plate, popping it into her mouth and chewing – Rachel squeaks in outrage. "It tastes as good as it smells. Maybe because I paid for it."

"Thief. I won, fair and square."

"You attempted to push me into the pond. That was an attempt at cheating."

"It didn't work, therefore I didn't cheat." As she talks, Rachel surveys Quinn's plate, trying to determine which item is safe for her to steal. With a triumphant cry, she snatches up a piece of dry toast and takes a huge bite out of it.

Quinn just stares at her. "Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look right now, Rachel?"

"It was the only thing safe to eat," she explains around a mouthful of toast. Rachel reaches for the little plastic tub of strawberry jam that came with their food, spreading a little on the wedge of uneaten toast still in her hand.

"Desperation is so not a good look on you."

"I'm incredibly competitive, and I've been told I'm something of a sore loser."

"You're lucky I'm going to be the bigger person here, and not smear my bacon all over your omelette."

"Threatening a vegetarian with bacon? That's a hate crime."

Quinn points at the opened strawberry jam tub with her fork. "And that's cannibalism."

Rachel makes the mistake of glancing up at Quinn in this moment. Quinn has one elbow on the table, resting her chin on her palm, amusement evident in her eyes as she brandishes her fork in her other hand. Despite the sizeable crowd around them, the entire scene feels too intimate. She chokes on her toast, and has to wash it down with a large sip of her coffee. "Guilty as charged, I suppose," she manages eventually.

Quinn smirks, clearly glad to have gotten the last word, and goes back to her food.

* * *

After a quick shower, they go out for drinks at a place Quinn is surprisingly quiet about – until they arrive.

"A karaoke bar," says Rachel, her eyes gleaming.

"A karaoke bar," agrees Quinn. "Please try not to make me regret this decision. I remember only too well the last time we went to one."

"You have a lovely voice. It only makes sense that we duet at least once."

"I was talking about your song choices. _Especially For You_? That was so campy." She allows Rachel to drag her to a table – front and centre of the stage, naturally – and order them drinks.

"Would you rather sing Broadway?"

"I would rather not sing at all."

Rachel laughs indulgently, and lets it go. Truthfully, she's already touched that Quinn chose to bring her here. She doesn't need to coax Quinn into singing – although that would, admittedly, be a bonus. "You'll change your tune later."

"We'll see." Their drinks arrive; Quinn blinks at the cranberry vodka in front of her. "How did you know what I wanted?"

"I've known you long enough, Quinn." The other time they went with Santana, Quinn downed cranberry vodka after cranberry vodka and was horribly drunk.

"I'm not that predictable."

Rachel is distracted by her phone. There's a message from Santana: _did u get ur girl yet_

 **No.**

 _y not_

 **Are you drunk?**

 _not yet humme out at sum guys party wa doin_

 **She took me to a karaoke bar. We're here now.**

 _Gr8t wat r u waitin 4 go sing 2 ur woman n hav all teh orgasms_

 **You're disgusting. And it doesn't work that way.**

 _Ya it does who r u evn berry_

Rachel huffs and decides not to reply, shoving her phone back into her purse.

"Was that Santana? What did she want?" asks Quinn.

"Yes. Nothing at all… she's on her way to getting drunk and was asking about my inebriation levels."

Much to her disappointment, Quinn doesn't respond with some cute and flirty comment like she's been doing all day; she simply presses her lips together and returns to her drink. "Oh."

"Is something wrong?"

Quinn forces a smile – she's known Quinn long enough to be able to distinguish a fake smile from a genuine one. "No, nothing. Do you want to go? You could call her."

Rachel finally remembers. "It's nothing like that – we've broken up. As in, not that we were dating to begin with… we simply decided we were better off as friends."

"Oh."

"Yeah." She doesn't mention the reasons for it.

"Any reason why? You two looked pretty happy with whatever arrangement you had," says Quinn, smiling mirthlessly.

And Rachel finds herself in a tight position. She can't very well come out and say _yes, we called it off because I'm in love with you_ because she's terrified of what Quinn's reaction will be, regardless of what Santana insists. She isn't going to lie to Quinn because when the truth comes out eventually, she'll lose Quinn's trust, and quite possibly, her friendship. Making matters worse, the noisy karaoke bar is no place for this conversation. "It's complicated," she manages at length.

Quinn's face closes off. "I see."

"Quinn, no." She lays her hand on Quinn's arm; much to her relief, Quinn doesn't pull away. "I'll tell you. I promise. I just – this isn't the best place to be talking about personal matters like this."

Her friend smiles at her – with a little more warmth this time. "Okay. You know, you don't have to."

"I want to."

Rachel returns to her drink. The mood's been ruined, but she's too afraid to suggest going back to the dorm; not after all the effort Quinn's put in to make her visit enjoyable.

"You haven't sang anything," points out Quinn.

"I'm a little tired from this morning," lies Rachel.

Nodding, Quinn stands up. "I'm going outside for a little fresh air."

"Quinn, wait." She quickly throws some money on the table and grabs her purse, following Quinn outside. "Would you let me explain?"

"I don't know, is there anything to explain?" Quinn doesn't stop walking as she talks.

"Please don't do this."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Yes, you are; you're walking away." In her haste to keep up, Rachel takes a step too far forward, and her foot goes in a different direction from her body. She stumbles but years of dance training means she falls gracefully.

"Rachel!" Quinn is at her side in an instant, kneeling on the sidewalk in front of her. "Are you alright?"

"I think so. My talent is still intact, at any rate." She pulls her body up and inspects it; nothing appears wounded apart from her dignity.

"Okay. That's good." Quinn makes like she's about to get up, but Rachel catches her wrist.

"Stay."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Liar."

Quinn huffs. "Rachel, let go of me."

"Only if you promise you're not going to run away."

"You're being ridiculous."

She squeezes Quinn's hand, gently, until Quinn finally looks at her. "Please."

"Fine. I promise."

Rachel releases her. Quinn settles on the sidewalk, legs curled beneath her. "Okay. See, I'm not running away."

She smiles. "I appreciate it. Quinn, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

She laughs without humour. "No one ever does."

Rachel has her back against the wall. She's being forced into confessing, and even if it's happening in less than ideal circumstances – while they're sitting on the sidewalk somewhere in New Haven, smelling of alcohol – it feels like a load has been lifted off her chest. "I'm in love with you."

"... what?"

"That's why Santana broke it off with me." She takes a slow breath. "I fell for you somewhere along the way. She noticed it before I did, and ended it."

Quinn's staring at her as though seeing her for the first time.

"Santana seems to think you feel the same way about me." She almost feels like crying. As forthright about her feelings as she is, laying her heart out in the open like this isn't incredibly fun for Rachel. "Even then, I was scared to tell you how I feel because I… I don't know, Quinn. I'm scared I'm going to lose you. I've been wrong about smaller things. What if I was wrong about this?"

Rachel forces a smile. "You should say something now before I pass out from nerves."

Quinn closes her mouth. "I don't know what to say, Rachel."

"It's not that difficult. You either feel the same way or you don't; in the latter case, you decide whether you ever want to see me again." Rachel can't keep the sarcastic edge out of her voice, but she's had a long day, and an even longer rollercoaster ride of emotions. "I'll respect whatever decision you make."

"You can't put this all on me."

"And why not? I've put myself out here; it's completely up to you what happens next." She looks at Quinn, who has her gaze trained on the tarmac in front of them.

"I… I've never done this before."

"Been in a relationship with a girl?"

"Felt this way about anyone."

"What way?"

"I don't know." Her fingers fidget ceaselessly in her lap. "Like it's too much. Like I want so much more, but it's not enough. Like I need to be with you every second of the day."

Rachel pulls her knees up to her chin. "Haven't you ever been in love before?"

"I don't know if I can call it that. I'm not sure what being in love is supposed to feel like."

"... Are you being serious, right now?"

"Of course," snaps Quinn. "Rachel, you're the first person I've ever met who didn't want something from me. You and I, we… I've never been able to figure out what you were to me." She pauses. "I guess that's why I seemed fixated on you. I never stopped trying to figure you out."

"I've never wanted anything more than your friendship," says Rachel, "at least, before this happened." It seems needless to say anything more than that.

"Well, yes. I came to that conclusion some time back."

Rachel's heart sinks. She can guess where this is leading to. "I'm sorry I dropped this on you so suddenly."

"Don't be. It would have happened sooner or later." Quinn exhales.

Rachel nods. She gets to her feet.

"Rachel, where are you going?"

"Back to the dorm. I think you need some space. I don't know how we'll manage that, given that I'm staying with you, and this is such short notice." She checks the time on her phone. "I think I might be able to catch the last train back to New York if I hurry."

"Don't leave."

"Quinn, I just told you I'm in love with you. I know you're really confused and have a lot to think about. You need time and space away from me to make whatever decision you need to make." She glances at Quinn, trying not to cry. "I'm sorry I ruined this trip. You were trying so hard to make sure I had a good time, and I ruined everything."

"Rachel…"

"If you don't mind, could you at least point me to the station? I'll collect my things from you another time, when we've both calmed down. Or if you prefer, I could ask Kurt to come get my bag. It won't cost a thing, not when we've got these train passes."

Quinn looks anguished, but she doesn't stop her from going.

* * *

She calls Santana, who picks up on the first ring. "Rach? Are you okay?"

"I don't think so," she says, and bursts into tears.

"I'm so sorry. Where are you? Do you want me to come get you?"

"I'm fine. I'm on the last train back to New York."

She hears Santana say something in the background, and then Santana's voice sounds in her ear. "I told Kurt you're coming back tonight," she says. "We'll come pick you up from Grand Central."

"You don't have to. Tell him he doesn't have to, either." She sniffs loudly.

"Bullshit, Rach. What time's your train? Never mind, we'll just wait. Or look it up on the website. See you later." The call terminates abruptly.

Rachel sets her phone back down on the seat beside her and tries to hold her tears in. She had started her trip feeling on top of the world, and now here she is, crawling home in pieces. Rachel tucks her hands into the pockets of her coat – and starts when her phone blares _Valerie_.

"Sorry, I forgot to ask if you wanted me to stay on the line with you," says Santana sheepishly. "Do you? Or I could put Kurt on if you want…"

Rachel smiles through the tears that are rolling down her cheeks. "Thank you for offering, Santana. Do you think you could talk, though? I don't feel like talking much right now."

"Yeah, okay. So, the party Hummel and I went to? We didn't know anyone there, except the smarmy son of a bitch who's a friend of the guy Hummel met in the cafeteria at NYADA…"

* * *

She arrives in a deserted station where the only two people there spring out of their chairs when they spot her. Rachel puts her phone back into her pocket.

Kurt reaches her first. "Come here, sweetie," he says, opening his arms wide.

Hot tears burn at her eyes, and she flings herself into his embrace. "Let's get you home," murmurs Kurt, ushering her to the waiting cab.

Rachel cries into his neck the entire way back and up into the loft. Santana excuses herself, presumably to inform Quinn that she's gotten home safely, but thinking about Quinn hurts. Rachel cries harder.

Santana slides into bed with her. She feels Kurt pry her fingers away gently and hand her over.

"I'm so sorry," coos her friend.

* * *

It takes two days before Rachel calms down enough to function, and another day before she can be coaxed into relating the events that led to her breakdown. From the way Kurt and Santana exchange significant looks over her head when they think she doesn't see, Rachel can guess that she's filled him in on the conversations she had with Santana before the trip.

"I'mma cut her," says Santana.

"She's your friend too."

"Yeah, well; I've slept with you more times than I have with her. I live with you too, and if you're going to mope around like this, it'll depress me."

Rachel smiles a little. Her friend will never cease to amaze her – as does Santana's going to great lengths to avoid showing affection. "Thank you for your concern, Santana."

"Concern nothing."

"It won't actually ruin your big tough Lima Heights survivor reputation if you'd admit to being nice just this once," remarks Kurt snidely.

Santana narrows her eyes at him. "Would you like to be a real soprano, Hummel? I have a coupla razor blades here that can help."

"Guys, hello? I'm the one with a broken heart here?"

But they've started squabbling again. Rachel sighs, and goes to fetch Brad and the TV remote. Eventually, they'll remember her and come keep her company, but until then…

"You'll never break my heart; won't you, Brad?"

The pillow remains strong and silent, yet comforting.

* * *

Quinn has yet to contact her since that fateful visit. Kurt's returned with her neatly-packed duffel with nothing out of the ordinary to report, no matter how many probing questions Rachel asked.

She doesn't know what to do, except gather the pieces of her heart, and move on.

Fortunately, college is very good at keeping her occupied. And if there are moments when she walks in on Santana engaged in a hushed yet angry conversation on the phone? When she sees Kurt hastily slam down the lid of his laptop? Rachel's too busy to stop and ask.

It's better this way.

* * *

On a warm spring afternoon, Rachel gets a call from Santana. "Rachel," she says, sounding out of breath, "I'm fucking glad you picked up. You gotta get back home now."

"Santana? What's wrong? Where are you? Are you in trouble? Did something happen to Kurt?" Already, she's throwing her things into her bag with a quick panicked look to her lecturer, and Rachel's running through the halls.

"I don't know – shit, Rach. Just hurry home, okay? How soon can you get back?"

"Uh – fifteen minutes? Taxi!" she barks, and a car pulls up in front of her. "I just got a cab. You're not hurt or anything, are you?"

"I'm fine. I just need your help, real quick."

"Did you try making pasta again? I thought we agreed that you wouldn't use the kitchen unsupervised after the noodle incident."

"Well, fuck, fine time to bring that up when I'm in the middle of a crisis!" snaps Santana.

"I'm mentally preparing myself for what I might find, since you refuse to give me details!"

"God, you're annoying. I'm hanging up now. See you in a bit."

* * *

She tumbles through the door, completely out of breath after deciding the lift was too slow, and running up eight storeys of stairs. "Santana? Where are you? Are – oh."

Quinn, as pale as death, gets up from where she's been sitting on the couch.

Rachel goes white. She whirls around –

– and jerks back as the loft door slams shut, narrowly missing her nose, and the unmistakable sound of a padlock being fastened.

"Oh for – you're not fucking serious!" shouts Rachel.

"Look, Hummel and I have been working far too hard on this for us to be scared of your weak-ass threats," Santana's voice floats through the door. "It's Friday afternoon; we'll let you two morons out on Saturday afternoon at the earliest, on until you get your shit sorted out."

"Kurt!"

"I love you, Rachel, but I'm with Santana on this one," he says. "You'll thank me later."

She bangs her fists on the door, yelling curses that grow more frantic when she hears the sounds of footsteps receding. Rachel finally exhausts her repertoire of swear words, and slides to the floor.

"... I didn't know you knew how to curse like that in Spanish."

Rachel glances up at Quinn. "Living with Santana means you hear a lot of things – most directed at you."

"That explains it."

She picks herself up and dusts off her jeans, attempting to recoup some of her dignity. "Hello, Quinn. It's good to see you. You look well." It's a blatant lie; even with the late afternoon sun streaming in through the windows, it's clear to see Quinn looks haggard, with dark circles under her eyes.

"Thanks. You look… are we really going to do this, Rachel?" Quinn sounds just as tired as she looks.

"Fine. You look terrible, and clearly you haven't been sleeping well. Have you been eating, at least?"

"Just as well as you."

"Which means not at all." She folds her arms across her chest. "I'm mad at you."

"I know."

"I haven't heard from you in nearly a month. I would have thought you'd died, if Santana and Kurt weren't so blatantly obvious about the fact they were in contact with you."

"Wait, you knew they were planning this?"

Rachel snorts. "Of course not. This stunt is something I thought would only be used in cheesy romantic comedies, the kind churned out by Hollywood for Valentine's Day; not inflicted on us by a mismatched and misguided pair of schemers that my roommates and erstwhile friends have turned out to be."

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Quinn's mouth twitch. "Erstwhile friends?"

"They've really outdone themselves this time. I thought the noodle incident was bad enough, but clearly I was wrong."

Quinn sits back down slowly. One of her hands goes to the upper arm of the other, massaging it – a sure sign she's nervous. "I never heard the details of that incident. The only thing I know about it is Kurt's sudden aversion to linguine, and this eye twitch Santana gets when someone mentions alfredo."

Rachel laughs weakly. "Remind me to tell you, one of these days. After we've murdered those two for their extreme stupidity." She takes a step forward – and stops short when she sees Quinn tense. "You're nervous."

"I can't help it."

She finds it increasingly harder to stay mad at Quinn, especially now it's clear to see she's just as tormented by Rachel's revelation, if not more so. "I may be mad, but I'm more worried about you."

"... Why are you doing this?"

"What am I doing?" Rachel wonders when she started making a habit out of lying to Quinn.

"Caring about me. I've hurt you, again and again, and yet you persist in putting me first." Quinn laughs once, sharply. "What have I done that makes you care so much?"

"I love you," says Rachel simply. The more times she says it, the more her conviction grows. "That doesn't need explanation."

"Yes, it does. I'm Quinn Fabray. People don't love me for no good reason."

"Well, I'm Rachel Berry, and I don't need a good reason to love anyone." Emboldened, she sits on the side of the couch nearest to her. Quinn immediately flees to the far end of the couch, stiff as a board. She won't even look in Rachel's direction.

"Quinn."

She makes a non-committal sound.

Rachel decides to try humour. "If we're going to talk, you need to be looking at me, at the very least."

"This is fine," says Quinn.

"No, it isn't." She scoots a little closer. Rachel has this ridiculous mental image of Quinn getting startled like a rabbit if she gets too close too quickly, and diving out the window; they're on the eighth floor, so that's not an ideal outcome.

"There's nothing to talk about," insists Quinn.

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

The corners of Rachel's mouth turn down. "Quinn…"

"What?" Quinn sneaks a glance at her. "Oh god… Rachel, you're not going to cry, are you?"

"No," says Rachel. "I'm feeling a little overwhelmed right now, that's all." She scoots an inch forward. "I love you. I think I'm still falling in love with you, and that you might like me; it's a lot to take in."

Quinn makes a strangled sound. "I do like you."

"As a friend?" Another inch.

"You're my best friend, but you're also… I don't know what you want me to say. I'm not good at letting people in. Or talking about my feelings. I've been thinking about this for a while now, and it's not getting any easier."

"You can just start small." The couch is getting a good polishing from the seat of her pants. "Like… are you feeling happy right now? Sad?"

"Definitely not sad."

She's almost within arm's length – an average person's arm length, that is. Damn. "I hope you're not going to say angry."

Quinn chuckles softly. "Rachel, I'm so far from angry right now. Maybe I'm a little pissed at Santana and Kurt for doing this to us, but that's all."

If Rachel strains, she could probably brush Quinn with her fingertips. She'd really rather not. "Content, perhaps?" She keeps her voice low so Quinn won't suspect the distance between their bodies has been decreasing at a steady pace.

"Why are we talking about my feelings? What about yours?"

"Oh, well, I – I know what you're trying to do, Quinn Fabray; being Miss Sneaky Pants doesn't suit you." Rachel has her butt suspended over the couch cushions so the rustling of material doesn't give her away. She's never been this grateful for her well-toned thighs and core muscles. "You and I both know I could talk for hours about myself if given half a chance."

"Then why don't you?" Quinn turns her head –

– and comes nose-to-nose with Rachel.

Moments pass in agonizing silence. Rachel stares intently into surprised hazel eyes, hoping this won't be the trigger that sends Quinn out her window. Her fingers twitch at her sides.

"Rachel," breathes Quinn.

Her name – spoken so reverently – brings Rachel's attention back to the present, away from Quinn's eyes. Rachel wonders if she should kiss her to properly break the spell.

Quinn saves her the effort.

Quinn's mouth on hers makes her feel like she's never been kissed before. She moans, tries to get closer, her hands grasp at Quinn's face. She's greedy. She wants more, right now; she needs to be closer to Quinn.

A whimper escapes Rachel when Quinn grabs her hip; she fists a hand in Quinn's hair and tugs her where Rachel wants her. It gets a whimper out of Quinn too; Rachel smiles, and kisses her again.

Rachel finds herself being laid down. She pulls Quinn down with her, hooking her leg around Quinn's.

"I've wanted this for so long," groans Quinn between kisses.

"Me too." Rachel's palm slides down the length of Quinn's body. "I've wanted you. I want you." She keeps her other hand on the back of Quinn's head, fingers splayed, holding her close. She doesn't stop kissing Quinn, only gasping softly when she feels an arm wrap around her waist.

Quinn exhales. She presses her forehead to Rachel's.

Rachel touches her chin to get her attention. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. We just… we can't do this out here."

Rachel nods. "My room." With a quick peck to Quinn's lips, she extricates herself from underneath Quinn's body and walks to her room. "Coming?" she tosses over her shoulder.

Quinn's not Santana, so she doesn't receive a vulgar response. Rachel's just reached her bed when she feels her knees pressed to the edge, hands on her hips, and her body gently turned around.

"Are you sure?" Quinn whispers.

Rachel shudders. Quinn's presence alone is doing things to her; particularly, to the spontaneous saturation of her panties. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life. Are _you_ sure?"

"I… honestly don't know what I'm doing, but I'm tired of not letting myself have the things I want."

"You want me?"

Quinn looks into her eyes. "I do."

Her arms curl around Quinn's waist, fingertips toying with the hem of her shirt. "Then have me."

Lips roam over the shell of Rachel's ear; she moans softly and presses herself closer to Quinn. She tilts her head to one side so those lips can kiss lower still.

"I need…"

Quinn finds the spot, and Rachel's knees go weak. She sits down slowly, fingers interlinking over Quinn's spine to keep her close as they reposition themselves. Rachel laughs breathlessly when Quinn breaks away from her neck to fling an arm out, propping her body up so she doesn't crush Rachel.

"You're adorable."

Quinn gazes at her through half-lidded eyes, hair rumpled where Rachel had ran her fingers through it earlier. "Adorable?"

"And incredibly beautiful," adds Rachel. She's flat on her back, Quinn hovering over her. She's never felt so safe and protected in her life. Her palms cup Quinn's face, thumbs lingering over cheekbones. The tip of Rachel's finger brushes down Quinn's nose. "I've thought about this. For so long."

Quinn makes a soft sound. She lowers herself on her elbows to kiss Rachel again, slowly – which deepens when Rachel cradles the back of Quinn's head to her. One hand slides up Quinn's shirt, stroking heated skin.

"Can I…?"

"Yeah."

It's awkward, attempting to remove clothing when neither of them want to stop kissing the other, but they manage somehow. Rachel's down to her bra, and Quinn's lost her jeans.

Rachel's breathing skips when Quinn licks up her belly. "Take it off."

"Mine or yours?"

"Mine. Yours. Both. Just… here." She fumbles behind herself – stilling when a hand covers her own. "Relax, Rachel," says Quinn, sounding amused.

"You're asking me to relax, now?"

"Yeah. Here, let me…" She undoes the clasp of Rachel's bra with a flick. Rachel pouts; Quinn kisses it away. Before she can lose herself in Quinn again, the other woman draws away, sliding Rachel's bra off her shoulders.

"Beautiful," she whispers.

Before Rachel has a chance to react, Quinn is upon her again. Rachel's back arches and she hisses in pleasure when a hot mouth closes around her nipple. There's a hand around her other breast, fingers tweaking –

" _Fuck_."

Quinn laughs softly. Rachel can feel the vibration traveling through her body. "I don't think I'll get used to hearing you swear."

"There's more where that came from." Rachel rolls her hips against Quinn's body, smirking when she hears a sharp intake of breath. "Touch me."

Quinn's hand leaves her breast; Rachel bites on her lower lip to stifle a whimper – which quickly becomes a moan when the hand tugs at the waistband of her panties. She raises her hips so she can scoot out of her – embarrassingly soaked – shorts and underwear.

She's completely naked, lying in front of Quinn, and all she can think about is the aching need in her belly, and the fact Quinn isn't doing anything to satisfy it. Rachel pulls Quinn in for another bruising kiss.

Quinn snaps out of her trance. Rachel yelps when she's pressed back into her pillows _hard_ , and her hips buck when a hand cups between her legs. "Oh god," grunts Rachel, throwing her head back when fingers start a rhythm over her clit. "So good. Baby, don't stop."

"I won't. You look so good like this."

She moans louder. "Quinn, I need you to – I'm close."

Fingers thrust into her. Rachel thinks she might see stars. Her world narrows down to her core, and the mounting pleasure that drowns everything out –

She comes on Quinn's hand with a cry. Rachel collapses, boneless, and tries to remember how to breathe.

"Rachel?"

"Mmm," she says. She rolls onto her side to pull Quinn in for a kiss. "I'm here."

"Good. I was starting to worry." Quinn pecks her forehead; she lets Rachel hook her leg around her own, tangling their legs together. "You looked so gorgeous earlier."

She's already flushed and panting from her orgasm, so Rachel finds it hard to tell if Quinn calling her gorgeous has any other effect apart from making her heart flutter. "Not as gorgeous as you will be, I'm sure." She rolls her hips against Quinn's, licking her lips when she leaves a wet patch on Quinn's panties – which are already darker at the crotch…

"You're still clothed," Rachel points out.

"You were quite demanding and impatient."

"Well, now I'm demanding that you let me get you off."

Quinn flushes scarlet.

Rachel doesn't wait for her to recover. She swings her leg over to straddle Quinn, sitting up on her knees. "I'm going to enjoy every minute of this," she purrs, squeezing a bra-covered breast.

Quinn's eyes darken as she gazes up at her.

She starts slow, partly to calm her own nerves; mostly because she's _Quinn_ , and god – she's wanted this for so long, she's forgotten what her life was without Quinn Fabray. Rachel loves how responsive she is; Quinn's breath hitches when her thumbs rub circles over Quinn's ribcage.

Rachel bends to kiss each and every silvery-white scar she can find. "You," she murmurs, "are the most amazing person I've been privileged to know, Quinn Fabray."

"Rachel…"

"Hush. This is the one and only time I should be allowed to ramble," instructs Rachel, and Quinn giggles. "I mean every word. How could I not know you like I have, and not fall in love with you?"

Quinn just shakes her head.

Rachel crawls closer to kiss her. "I've been so blind and oblivious," she says between kisses.

"We have," Quinn corrects. "But we're here now, aren't we?" She props herself up on an elbow as her other hand cups Rachel's cheek.

Smiling gently, Rachel turns her head to kiss Quinn's palm. "We are." She takes the hand in both of her own, kissing the raised skin on the knuckle, a healed wound marking where the windshield crumpled on her. "I'm sorry I made you wait."

"I'm sorry I was being dumb."

"Quinn, you're anything but dumb. A little out of touch with your feelings, maybe." Rachel places both hands flat on the bed, leaning forward so she can kiss Quinn back down. "Nothing we can't fix."

"God, that mouth of yours," groans Quinn, arching her back as Rachel's tongue brushes sensitive skin.

She laughs softly. "That meant something completely different back in school," says Rachel. She unclasps Quinn's bra and takes a nipple into her mouth, effectively cutting off whatever response Quinn was going to make.

"I want you lower," pants Quinn.

"What…?"

"Your mouth on me," she clarifies, and blushes, stuttering: "O-only if you want to, because you don't have to…"

"I do want to." Rachel slithers down Quinn's body, pushing her legs apart. "I was actually wondering how I was going to ask if I could go down on you without making it seem crass."

Quinn laughs. "You just did."

"I guess." She licks up Quinn's inner thigh, almost up to her knee; the laughter trails off into a moan. Smiling wickedly, she guides Quinn's legs over her shoulders. The first touch of her tongue to silken folds is electric. Quinn makes a strangled sound, and her heels dig into Rachel's back.

"Oh fuck."

Sleeping with Santana has improved Rachel's expertise in the bedroom by leaps and bounds, but she disregards all of it. Rachel takes her time to learn each nuance of Quinn's body. Quinn's hips thrust forward when Rachel circles her clit so she does it again, quickening her pace. Her arms curl around Quinn's thighs, holding her firmly.

" _Rachel_ ," groans Quinn. Fingers curl into Rachel's hair and pull, _hard_. She finds that she quite likes it, and wonders if she can get Quinn to pull her hair the next time –

 _Fuck_ , she's in love with this gorgeous and amazing woman who maybe more than likes her back (her high school self would have found her pathetic, but _whatever_. She's gotten more action than her). There might be a next time.

Quinn's body stiffens and she comes hard, moaning Rachel's name into her hand. Rachel's eyes never leave her face.

Once Quinn's breathing evens out, she opens her eyes. "Come here," she says, lips curving into a smile.

Rachel returns her smile. She kisses Quinn slowly, sighing when she feels fingers tugging at her hair, and a hand on the small of her back. "I like it when you play with my hair."

"I figured." She pulls at Rachel until the smaller woman lets her weight rest on Quinn, tucking her head under Quinn's. "I like it too. Playing with your hair, I mean." Quinn starts combing her fingers through her hair.

Rachel hums in contentment. "I don't think I've been this happy in a while."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing. I have you now; it more than makes up for everything." As the words leave her mouth, Rachel becomes aware of their implications, and she scrambles up on her elbows so she can look Quinn in the eye. "Um. I didn't mean for it to come out like that; just because we slept together doesn't automatically constitute a relationship. We still have a lot to discuss, and I'm hoping this means that you might prove more amenable to talking…"

"Rachel, Rachel. Shhh." Quinn's expression is somewhere between amused and mortified. "I know. It's fine. Clearly we have a lot to talk about before we make a decision on whatever this is going to be – "

"That's what I said."

"– but we have time." Her fingers catch on a stray lock of Rachel's hair. "I'm not running away, anymore. I promise."

"I'm glad." Her fingers brush Quinn's chin; making ruby lips part. She knows she is an open book, her heart laid bare for all to see because she sees herself reflected in Quinn's intense gaze. In her eyes Rachel sees infinite possibilities.

She's fallen, completely.

"What are you thinking about?" asks Quinn.

"You."

"Really?"

"Cliche as it is, yes. You have the most beautiful eyes." Rachel props her head on one hand so the other can continue its exploration of Quinn's face, unhindered. She feels Quinn's hands come to rest comfortably on her hips like they've always belonged there.

"So do you."

"They're brown. Yours are… hazel-ly-greenish-goldenish. Definitely more interesting than brown."

"Your post-orgasm vocabulary is truly astounding, Rachel Berry."

Rachel arches an eyebrow in a passable imitation of the woman in front of her. "You should be taking that as a compliment to your sexual prowess, Quinn Fabray."

"You know what would be a compliment? My returning the favour."

It takes a moment for the words to sink in properly through Rachel's brain; when it does, the blood rushes straight to her face. "O-oh. That's… I've unleashed a monster, haven't I?"

"Maybe." Quinn follows the nonchalant remark with a coy smile, and Rachel promptly forgets whatever she was going to say next.

* * *

The world seems a lot brighter when she's in love.

That's the first thought that flits through her consciousness when Rachel blinks awake at her regular time. The second thought is that she woke up with Quinn practically on top of her, fingers still curled around her own. It's completely adorable; she can't help the megawatt grin that spreads over her face.

Just as she's contemplating whether she should wake Quinn up or continue to watch her sleep like a complete creeper, Quinn's eyes flutter open.

"Mmmph," says Quinn. Her expression brightens once she registers whose arms are around her. "Mornin'."

Rachel cradles her cheek to plant a kiss on her nose; Quinn scrunches it up immediately after, prompting a laugh. "I'll be back in a bit," says Rachel, climbing out of bed.

Quinn's response is muffled as she wraps her arms around a pillow and goes back to sleep.

Outside, Santana has her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. It's a sign of how close their bond is (or perhaps an indicator of how much caffeine she's consumed at this point) that she actually gives Rachel a small smile before returning to her coffee, pointing at another freshly-brewed mug steaming on the table.

It's the only thing that saves her from immediate evisceration. Rachel takes the mug with a pinched smile, and tells her so.

Santana waves a careless hand. "But it worked."

Rachel doesn't answer her.

"I guess you had a good night?" she asks dryly, then holds up a hand when Rachel opens her mouth. "No, don't answer that. It was rhetorical, and anyway most of Bushwick heard the answer all night long."

Rachel takes her head out of the fridge and rolls her eyes. "We weren't _that_ loud."

Santana groans. "You're not even denying it. Jesus. Scar me for life, why don't you."

"Why would I deny it? You were one of the masterminds that locked us up in the first place." She lays strips of bacon into the frying pan, wincing when they sizzle and spit. "Quinn and I made love."

"Dear god."

"What, do you have something against euphemisms now, or…?"

"No – well, just yours, but – you're cooking real bacon."

Rachel looks down at the sizzling pan on the stove. "I am," she says, looking back at Santana.

"Dear god," repeats Santana, "you're completely whipped. I thought Cueball was bad, but this…"

Rachel opens her mouth to respond – and her words turn into a gasp of surprise when warm arms wrap around her waist from behind.

"You were taking too long," says the soft voice in her ear, "so I followed my nose."

Rachel laughs. She turns in Quinn's arms to kiss her properly. "Good job. You found us."

"Us?"

"You might think you're being cute by putting me over the bacon, but I know you well enough not to be offended by your priorities." She places a last kiss to Quinn's cheek before turning back to the stove. "Santana was nice enough to make me coffee, and cute enough to think that would save her from her fate. You're welcome to share it."

"Who said I'd ever rank bacon over you? Especially when you're being perfect, sharing your coffee with me." Quinn's arms don't leave her body; instead, Rachel feels Quinn press closer until she can rest her chin on Rachel's shoulder. Rachel hums in contentment and leans back briefly. "You're cooking bacon for me; therefore, you outrank bacon."

"Oh, is that how you use your Ivy League education? To sweet-talk girls?"

" _Ay dios mio_ ," says Santana loudly. She lets her head fall on the table with a thunk. "I'm right here, and I don't want to listen to your dumb flirting."

She feels Quinn bristle behind her – just like she has since they became friends – but for some reason, she feels even more touched than she normally would. Quinn has a protective streak a mile wide. Rachel's become the sappy person she never thought she'd be – and she wouldn't change a bit of it. She presses a kiss to the underside of Quinn's neck, smiling when Quinn instantly relaxes.

"Whipped," fake-coughs Santana.

"We haven't gotten _that_ adventurous in the bedroom yet," says Rachel, sotto-voce.

Quinn blanches. "Oh, my god."

"Do you even realise what you've just done, Suzy-Q? You've signed yourself up for the all-access season ticket to the Rachel Berry Rollercoaster of Crazy. I'm talking matching cat calendars – not the fun kind of cat, even – and couple shirts. Packed lunches. The whole shebang."

"I don't mind," admits Quinn. Rachel beams and kisses her, as Santana gags in the background.

"From the sweet sounds of Santana trying to regurgitate her breakfast, I'm guessing our favourite baby lesbians finally got their act together," says Kurt, emerging from the bathroom, freshly coiffed and dressed. He turns to Santana. "Mission accomplished."

Rachel bristles when she sees him, and the way he exchanges smug smiles with Santana. But then Quinn, still smiling beatifically, whispers, "We'll get them back later," in her ear, and all her murderous rage dissipates.

They still have a lot of unresolved issues to work through, but right now, standing in her kitchen with the girl who might be what's she's been looking for all along, watching her friends/roommates/future victims laugh, things are finally looking up.


End file.
